Brittany silveira
butter & sardine sandwich rebellion
I watch a video of a young woman and her mesmerizing food. She breaks up canned sardines drowned in vegetable oil, the glistening morsels sliding between her fingers, then mashes them with a few heaping tablespoons of butter. So much butter that chunks of lard peek through the mixture. Not only does she smush greasy sardines with full-fat butter—loads of it—but she packs the pale pewter paste onto untoasted white sliced bread. Bleached, nutritionally void, 90s-reminiscent, only-good-thing-about-it-is-flavour white bread. Not only does she spread slippery sardines and silky butter on airy white bread, but she throws on a Kraft Singles. “One molecule away from being plastic” sliced orange cheese. Not only does she nestle the sardine and butter pâté topped with glossy cheese between pillowy white bread, but she builds herself two of these stick-to-your-palate sandwiches. A whopping four slices of refined carbs. Not only does she combine sardines, butter, cheese and white bread with gusto, plus dare to make two plump sandwiches instead of one, but this is her breakfast. Her first meal of the day is pure pleasure with zero concern for calories or nutrients—not one fruit or vegetable in sight. Not only does she savour sardines with butter, enjoy processed cheese and white bread, plus prepare two overstuffed sandwiches (all for breakfast!), but she does this wholeheartedly. This woman absolutely delights in recreating her nostalgic childhood treat. Her eager squishing of the soft bread onto the clumpy, concrete-coloured concoction; her slow, luxuriating bites; her dopamine-induced shoulder shimmy and giddy grin and enthusiastic mm-hmm as she indulges. Don’t get me started on the milky, sugar-filled cup of tea she slurps with her feast. Or the crispy, cream-crammed croissant she pops onto her plate for dessert.
I watch this woman undaunted by the inescapability of having to feed herself, regarding it as a gift instead. No fear in ingredients, no guilt in portions, no burden in cravings. I watch this happy woman—her riveting appetite, her satisfying sandwich—and imagine the taste of a defiant life.
I watch this woman undaunted by the inescapability of having to feed herself, regarding it as a gift instead. No fear in ingredients, no guilt in portions, no burden in cravings. I watch this happy woman—her riveting appetite, her satisfying sandwich—and imagine the taste of a defiant life.
Dream of the ocean
How, time and time again, it resists man.
The seahorse flees from eager hands,
only to be framed as a souvenir—shriveled and trapped behind glass in perpetual torture.
The oyster clamps itself shut,
pried open and slurped up—from the comfort of its home to the bowels of an intruder.
The starfish buries its spiny skin under sand,
dragged out by a curious tourist—suffocated and stuffed into a nightstand jar as decor.
The squid squirts a confusing cloud of ink, even sacrifices a limb as predator distraction,
only to be slashed and deep fried—its lemon-coated corpse torn between teeth.
Aquatic wonders peaceful on the seabed,
diminished to dusty trinkets or food devoured.
The cruelty and avarice of man always making its demands,
turning that cerulean magic black.
Time and time again, the ocean resists man.
Time and time again, man hears nothing.
Distorts nature’s resounding no into an invitation for more–
take, take, take drumming in its greedy ears instead.
The seahorse flees from eager hands,
only to be framed as a souvenir—shriveled and trapped behind glass in perpetual torture.
The oyster clamps itself shut,
pried open and slurped up—from the comfort of its home to the bowels of an intruder.
The starfish buries its spiny skin under sand,
dragged out by a curious tourist—suffocated and stuffed into a nightstand jar as decor.
The squid squirts a confusing cloud of ink, even sacrifices a limb as predator distraction,
only to be slashed and deep fried—its lemon-coated corpse torn between teeth.
Aquatic wonders peaceful on the seabed,
diminished to dusty trinkets or food devoured.
The cruelty and avarice of man always making its demands,
turning that cerulean magic black.
Time and time again, the ocean resists man.
Time and time again, man hears nothing.
Distorts nature’s resounding no into an invitation for more–
take, take, take drumming in its greedy ears instead.
I show up for a date with no makeup on
Not a speck of concealer, not a swipe of mascara, not a smidge of gloss taints my face. Denying the instinct to highlight, contour, overline, plump. Tweezers haven’t plucked wiry chin hairs or tamed neglected brows. I don’t coat my nails in sparkly scarlet to bewitch a man as I finger my cocktail. My week isn’t wasted stressing about this one evening. I don’t avoid carbs and endure hours of hot yoga to present myself lean and limber. I refuse to shave my body—my altar of self-pleasure—for someone who doesn’t honour it. For this third rendezvous, I don’t manufacture myself into my usual pearlescent-eyed, high-heeled vixen. I resist the urge to pretty myself up, to water myself down, to serve myself in small doses. I don’t baste my body in jojoba oil or cram my breasts into my best push-up bra. I don’t shimmy into fitted jeans and suck in my gut the entire night. I breathe without worrying about how my belly owns space. I don’t succumb to curating my image: babydoll or bombshell, sweetheart or seductress. Renouncing pink paisley panties and sheer black thongs, opting for the wild freedom of period underwear instead. A woman-created comfort that coaxes empty yourself, let it come versus the manmade torture of tampons that shouts stuff yourself! hide this monstrosity! Tonight there’s no need for the inhibition of martinis or the admiration of a male. I don’t come alive under the lustful gaze of a stranger who ogles my cleavage. I am my own buzz, my own entertainment. At the bar, I strut towards my unsuspecting date and dunk his buttery pretzel in cheese dip. Stunned, he asks if I’m feeling alright. I snap the elastic waistband of my sweatpants and thumb melted cheddar from my smile. Turtlenecked, saggy breasted, stringy haired. Unwaxed, unpolished, unmasked.
I tell him I feel fantastic—free. You like?
I tell him I feel fantastic—free. You like?
Brittany Silveira is a writer from Montreal, Canada. With work featured in Swim Press, Marrow Magazine, and the now-defunct Graphite Publications, she crafts poetry and prose exploring love and loss, pleasure and pain—human dichotomies in their infinite forms. View her website here.
IG: @brittanyalexsilveira
IG: @brittanyalexsilveira
