Sure, a romp in bed with a lover or two can be fun, but give me a heaping bowl of cassoulet any day of the week.  Foreplay is lovely, but it pales in comparison to a bowl of mac and cheese with garlic and roasted red peppers, or a sheet pan overflowing with harissa chicken, leeks, potatoes, and yogurt, fresh from the oven.

Copulation vs. Cuban black bean soup served over rice?  No contest, pass the hot sauce.

Fellatio vs. seafood gumbo with okra and Creole cornbread?  Not even close.

Any other sexual act known to humanity vs. baked rigatoni with blue cheese and figs?  Don’t make me laugh.

Food doesn’t snuffle in your ear like a wild boar looking for truffles, nor does it accidentally break furniture when it gets excited.  Food doesn’t expect you to orgasm at every meal, nor is it concerned with its own pleasure.  Food doesn’t scream “Oh God Oh God Oh God” when the windows are open and your elderly next-door neighbors are having a garden party.  Food’s feelings don’t get hurt if you reject it for another dish, nor does it care how many meals you’ve had in the past.  Food is perfectly fine with either monogamy or an open relationship, and food never complains if you forget to shower or brush your teeth before hooking up.

When the house is cold, food doesn’t expect you to be naked while you’re eating.  Food never asks you to talk dirty if you’re not in the mood.  Food doesn’t have scary fantasies involving bike chains and dental drills, but it also doesn’t mind a bit if you want to spice things up.  Food never plays head games, nor does it gloat and preen when it makes you swoon with sensual delight.  And food never falls asleep in the middle of dinner, even when you do.

Sex has never made me ready to commit to a serious relationship, but food?  I, Bart Yates, take thee, Ham Hock, to be my lawfully wedded spouse…