My friend Dewi posted a fun list on her blog of what would happen if writing could be transformed into something edible. Sylvia Plath's work, for example, would be "Dark chocolate (the kind you can only get at the fancy shops--the kind that is almost entirely cocoa); wild strawberries." Ernest Hemingway's work would be "Fresh-from-the-garden raw vegetables; tart apples; blueberries; coarse brown rice." And my work would be "Fresh fruit salad (of course)."
I love lists like this. I can remember writing a list in fifth grade about which animals all the kids in my class reminded me of. I lay on my stomach my parent's bed with a pad of beige lined paper and thought very seriously about each person and their animal likeness. My best friends Emily and Sonja were both rabbits, as I recall. I think I was a monkey.
Dewi's work, by the way, would be honeydew melon (because that's what I think of when I hear her name) mixed with hot peppers--something scorching and delicious.