P—W V° 05:10
The Death of A Pondering Tongue
by Eileen Ahn
Part I:
Back in the day, I had a pondering tongue. Spooning, licking, poking, massaging, often confidently, sometimes timidly, as food’s first landing site, it changed shape to meet each bite. After each meal, I found the tongue touching each and every tooth. Roaming was excavation, hoping for little pieces of leftover treasure. A single gochugaru. A little peppercorn. An unidentifiable green vegetable. Flavors all considered, then archived with each swallow. The inventory of flavors, its lifetime work. Discovering new layers of complexity, its pride. The tongue was an adventurer and a seeker. At the same time, an archivist and a historian.
Part II:
Plastic jails my teeth now. The space inside my mouth has less real estate with two bulky replicas surveilling every movement towards perfection. The trays cage the top and bottom teeth, and similarly trap the tongue in between. Routines post-meal start to look different. The new rule allows only two to four hours — meal time — during which the molds can be removed. Immediately after, the brush and pick scrape and poke, the tongue stripped of any lingering invitations to ponder.
Eating used to be a collective ritual, emotional almost, moving in one concentrated rhythm. Hands driving, eyes fixed, mouth open, teeth apart, the tongue wet. When time was not a constraint, layers of flavors stacked up to reveal perfectly balanced aftertastes. The numbness of mala quenched by milk tea. The runny yolk seasoned by focaccia herbs. The brine of oysters washed down by the acid of mignonette. But now time makes eating almost primitive. There is a curfew on how long flavors can sit out. No longer permitted to marinate against the roof of the mouth. Forbidden to hide in small reservoirs. Eating is a measure of productivity, a race to eat and brush. Trays are switched out biweekly for alignment, yet they still cloud after just four days. Perhaps from spoiling, tenderizing what failed sterilization. Something I know the tongue would have met with kindness.
Has eating always been this exhausting? When the joy of eating is extinguished, the crude discipline of it all becomes a machine — the tongue just a cog. Open, bite, accept, chew, chew, swallow. The tongue still roams, attempts to feel each tooth, but only finds a smooth border of singularity. There are no real crevices, no excavations. What it touches is an architectural facade. What it seeks lies dormant underneath. In defeat, the tongue is tamed. The tongue no longer rolls in thought. It no longer searches. The leisure of a pondering tongue is dead.
Part III:
I wonder if the tongue daydreams in patience. If it yearns for colors to dye its surface and to slowly fade to pink once it has fully relished its aftertaste. The tongue only tastes the future. When it taps plastic or swallows sterility, when it sleeps between molds, or foams clean. What it hungers for will be whole with time. To roam, to ponder, to linger again.
Back in the day, I had a pondering tongue. Spooning, licking, poking, massaging, often confidently, sometimes timidly, as food’s first landing site, it changed shape to meet each bite. After each meal, I found the tongue touching each and every tooth. Roaming was excavation, hoping for little pieces of leftover treasure. A single gochugaru. A little peppercorn. An unidentifiable green vegetable. Flavors all considered, then archived with each swallow. The inventory of flavors, its lifetime work. Discovering new layers of complexity, its pride. The tongue was an adventurer and a seeker. At the same time, an archivist and a historian.
Plastic jails my teeth now. The space inside my mouth has less real estate with two bulky replicas surveilling every movement towards perfection. The trays cage the top and bottom teeth, and similarly trap the tongue in between. Routines post-meal start to look different. The new rule allows only two to four hours — meal time — during which the molds can be removed. Immediately after, the brush and pick scrape and poke, the tongue stripped of any lingering invitations to ponder.
Eating used to be a collective ritual, emotional almost, moving in one concentrated rhythm. Hands driving, eyes fixed, mouth open, teeth apart, the tongue wet. When time was not a constraint, layers of flavors stacked up to reveal perfectly balanced aftertastes. The numbness of mala quenched by milk tea. The runny yolk seasoned by focaccia herbs. The brine of oysters washed down by the acid of mignonette. But now time makes eating almost primitive. There is a curfew on how long flavors can sit out. No longer permitted to marinate against the roof of the mouth. Forbidden to hide in small reservoirs. Eating is a measure of productivity, a race to eat and brush. Trays are switched out biweekly for alignment, yet they still cloud after just four days. Perhaps from spoiling, tenderizing what failed sterilization. Something I know the tongue would have met with kindness.
Has eating always been this exhausting? When the joy of eating is extinguished, the crude discipline of it all becomes a machine — the tongue just a cog. Open, bite, accept, chew, chew, swallow. The tongue still roams, attempts to feel each tooth, but only finds a smooth border of singularity. There are no real crevices, no excavations. What it touches is an architectural facade. What it seeks lies dormant underneath. In defeat, the tongue is tamed. The tongue no longer rolls in thought. It no longer searches. The leisure of a pondering tongue is dead.
I wonder if the tongue daydreams in patience. If it yearns for colors to dye its surface and to slowly fade to pink once it has fully relished its aftertaste. The tongue only tastes the future. When it taps plastic or swallows sterility, when it sleeps between molds, or foams clean. What it hungers for will be whole with time. To roam, to ponder, to linger again.
2026 © E.Ahn