~BBW, ~~WG, stuffing, gluttony, burping — One of the best things about hedonism, besides getting fat, is burping. This is a tale that celebrates all three.
When my family signed up for the foreign student exchange program my senior year, we were told to expect a certain degree of culture shock with our student from Panislavia. Anya, they said, spoke very good English and had a fairly high degree of familiarity with American culture, but of course there were always customs unique to each culture that would seem strange to outsiders. Just relax, we were told, and don’t be afraid if both you and Anya have habits that might seem odd to one another.
Anya, when we picked her up at the airport, did indeed speak very good, if slightly accented, English. She was eighteen, my age—rail-thin, with pale skin and shoulder-length blonde hair and wrists like pencils. Pleasantries were exchanged—we’re so happy to meet you, did you have a good flight, Sarah will make sure to keep a close eye on you while you’re getting used to things.
What did she want for dinner, we asked, what food would be the most representative of the American culinary experience? Anya replied that really, she had no idea—Panislavia had existed in a state of food scarcity for centuries, so her knowledge of the subject was limited. “It’s why I’m so thin,” she explained—in fact, she added, for her country she was even considered a bit heftier than average. Looking at her sticklike legs and sharp, angular face, I found myself having a difficult time fathoming how that could be.
Well, we decided, to play it safe, we’d go with that most American of culinary staples: pizza.
Anya’s eyes widened when we arrived home and opened up the extra-large box of sausage and pepperoni, as though she were bearing witness to something holy. She scooped one, two, three slices onto her plate in quick succession, precariously balancing them along the edge. We said grace, and then our exchange student demonstrated the first of the cultural peculiarities we had been warned about.
She was absolutely voracious. The first slice disappeared within four bites; methodically and with relish, she mashed it between her jaws, then reached for the second slice. It, too, was gone within a few bites. Here, she paused, her lips gleaming with a thin coat of grease; carefully, probingly, she ran her tongue along them, absorbing each drop. My mother chuckled a little nervously, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she had seen.
Her lip-mopping finished, Anya reached for the glass of Coke we’d placed on her spot and brought the rim to her mouth. Tipping her head back, she swallowed, swallowed, swallowed, the carbonated, syrupy liquid sliding smooth and easy down her throat.
When the glass was drained, we learned the second cultural quirk our exchange student had brought with her.
Anya set the emptied cup back on the table with a solid clank, and patted her stomach with evident satisfaction. And then, a rumbling, guttural belch rolled from her lips. It was so deep, so base, for such a delicate-looking creature that it was almost as though something had possessed her, spoken through her belly and her mouth. She let it continue for several moments, until it had tapered away, and then picked up her third slice of pizza.
Before she could take a bite, she looked up at the rest of us and saw our faintly stunned expressions. “Oh!” she said, the realization hitting her, “is it different here in America?” In Panislavia, she explained, what she had just done was actually the height of politeness. “Food is so scarce,” she said, “and we are so seldom full. It is the highest compliment to show a host that their food has filled you up.”
Her explanation was so earnest that my parents seemed to feel guilty for their reaction. Well then, my mother said, smiling, we were honored she had given us such kind thanks—we would be sure to take note of it from now on and broaden our cultural horizons.
Beaming, Anya grabbed a fourth slice of pizza, sandwiched it on top of her third, and ate them both as one, munching happily away. Afterward, she drank down a second glass of Coke, again patted her stomach, and let out a thick, greasy burp of contentment.
- - - - -
The next morning, Anya proved to be as voracious as she had been the night before. Breakfast was eggs, bacon, toast, and orange juice; Anya had three eggs, strip after strip of bacon, and four slices of heavily buttered toast, and gulped at her orange juice as though it were a neverending fountain. When her plate was finally clean, she laid her hands on her midriff and let out a hearty belch that I could tell from across the table smelled of bacon grease.
“How did you get so good at that?” I asked her, my embarrassment overcome by curiosity. I’d tried to learn to burp on command when I was in middle school, to dismay my girlfriends, but I’d never managed anything more than feminine, airy half-burps, half-hiccups.
“It’s something all Panislavians learn from a young age,” she replied, grabbing another piece of bacon from the platter in the center of the table. “After all, we’re the only ones who know how it was invented.”
“Invented?”
And so she told me the folktale.
Many, many thousands of years ago, long before people were made, the god of the harvest, Balq, planted a great field of onions and let them grow. He planned to use them for all manner of stews and other dishes to last out the long winter, and looked forward all year to the day when he would pluck them from the earth. But, the day before harvest time, his greedy wife, the goddess Eruc, slipped into the field and devoured row upon row of onions until all of them were resting in her belly.
Balq was furious when he went to the field and saw that all that was left of his onions were holes in the dirt. “Who has eaten my onions?” he demanded of Eruc.
Smiling and rubbing her belly, Eruc said, “Not I! It was Lif, the god of sunrises—I saw him eating your onions!”
Fuming, Balq went after Lif, only for the god of sunrises to tell him that no, he had not even been near the field.
When Balq returned to Eruc, he again asked, “Who has eaten my onions?”
Again smiling and rubbing her belly, Eruc said, “Of course, I knew it couldn’t have been Lif I saw! It was Vasht, the goddess of rivers.”
And so Balq sought out Vasht, only to be told by the goddess of rivers that she had been forming new tributaries all week, and had not been near the field.
Indescribably furious, Balq returned home and said again, “Who has eaten my onions?” Once more Eruc smiled, and rubbed her belly, and said, “Oh, dear, I must not have seen the thief’s face clearly. We are never to know who ate your onions, alas, my husband.”
But Balq was a suspicious sort. And so he went to Clianth, the trickster god, and demanded his help in bringing the thief to justice. Smirking, Clianth produced a goblet from within his robe and poured within it a clear, sweet potion. “Once the thief drinks this,” Clianth said, “you shall know who stole your harvest.”
Returning home, the god of harvests told his wife that he’d just been to see Clianth, who’d given them a remarkable potion as a gift. “I thought it best that it go to you, my beautiful wife,” he said, and offered her the clear, sweet cup.
Eruc, never one to turn down a gift or flattery and certainly never one to turn down both, took the goblet from her husband and drank it down in one swallow, smacking her lips. When she had finished, Balq looked into her eyes, smiled triumphantly, and asked, “Now, who has eaten my onions?”
The goddess opened her mouth to answer Not I, my lord—but instead, a deep roaring like a thunderclap burst past her lips. It was loud, and it was mighty, and it carried on it the distinct, sweet tang of—onions.
For the next week, whenever Eruc tried to speak, nothing would come forth but belching to shame her for her crime. Balq was so taken by Clianth’s invention that, when he shaped humanity ages later, he poured into the ingredients a drop of the trickster god’s potion. As punishment for overindulgence, whenever a human had fallen into gluttony the potion would betray their sin for the world to know.
“But we Panislavians don’t much care for the gods,” Anya finished, taking another bite of bacon, “so we’ve turned their punishment against them. What they intended as a mark of shame is now our highest honor.” And, the story finished, she swallowed her last bite of bacon, leaned her head back, and let forth a short, meaty burp, as if punctuating the end of the tale.
The Invention of Burping
by Faber
by Faber
When my family signed up for the foreign student exchange program my senior year, we were told to expect a certain degree of culture shock with our student from Panislavia. Anya, they said, spoke very good English and had a fairly high degree of familiarity with American culture, but of course there were always customs unique to each culture that would seem strange to outsiders. Just relax, we were told, and don’t be afraid if both you and Anya have habits that might seem odd to one another.
Anya, when we picked her up at the airport, did indeed speak very good, if slightly accented, English. She was eighteen, my age—rail-thin, with pale skin and shoulder-length blonde hair and wrists like pencils. Pleasantries were exchanged—we’re so happy to meet you, did you have a good flight, Sarah will make sure to keep a close eye on you while you’re getting used to things.
What did she want for dinner, we asked, what food would be the most representative of the American culinary experience? Anya replied that really, she had no idea—Panislavia had existed in a state of food scarcity for centuries, so her knowledge of the subject was limited. “It’s why I’m so thin,” she explained—in fact, she added, for her country she was even considered a bit heftier than average. Looking at her sticklike legs and sharp, angular face, I found myself having a difficult time fathoming how that could be.
Well, we decided, to play it safe, we’d go with that most American of culinary staples: pizza.
Anya’s eyes widened when we arrived home and opened up the extra-large box of sausage and pepperoni, as though she were bearing witness to something holy. She scooped one, two, three slices onto her plate in quick succession, precariously balancing them along the edge. We said grace, and then our exchange student demonstrated the first of the cultural peculiarities we had been warned about.
She was absolutely voracious. The first slice disappeared within four bites; methodically and with relish, she mashed it between her jaws, then reached for the second slice. It, too, was gone within a few bites. Here, she paused, her lips gleaming with a thin coat of grease; carefully, probingly, she ran her tongue along them, absorbing each drop. My mother chuckled a little nervously, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she had seen.
Her lip-mopping finished, Anya reached for the glass of Coke we’d placed on her spot and brought the rim to her mouth. Tipping her head back, she swallowed, swallowed, swallowed, the carbonated, syrupy liquid sliding smooth and easy down her throat.
When the glass was drained, we learned the second cultural quirk our exchange student had brought with her.
Anya set the emptied cup back on the table with a solid clank, and patted her stomach with evident satisfaction. And then, a rumbling, guttural belch rolled from her lips. It was so deep, so base, for such a delicate-looking creature that it was almost as though something had possessed her, spoken through her belly and her mouth. She let it continue for several moments, until it had tapered away, and then picked up her third slice of pizza.
Before she could take a bite, she looked up at the rest of us and saw our faintly stunned expressions. “Oh!” she said, the realization hitting her, “is it different here in America?” In Panislavia, she explained, what she had just done was actually the height of politeness. “Food is so scarce,” she said, “and we are so seldom full. It is the highest compliment to show a host that their food has filled you up.”
Her explanation was so earnest that my parents seemed to feel guilty for their reaction. Well then, my mother said, smiling, we were honored she had given us such kind thanks—we would be sure to take note of it from now on and broaden our cultural horizons.
Beaming, Anya grabbed a fourth slice of pizza, sandwiched it on top of her third, and ate them both as one, munching happily away. Afterward, she drank down a second glass of Coke, again patted her stomach, and let out a thick, greasy burp of contentment.
- - - - -
The next morning, Anya proved to be as voracious as she had been the night before. Breakfast was eggs, bacon, toast, and orange juice; Anya had three eggs, strip after strip of bacon, and four slices of heavily buttered toast, and gulped at her orange juice as though it were a neverending fountain. When her plate was finally clean, she laid her hands on her midriff and let out a hearty belch that I could tell from across the table smelled of bacon grease.
“How did you get so good at that?” I asked her, my embarrassment overcome by curiosity. I’d tried to learn to burp on command when I was in middle school, to dismay my girlfriends, but I’d never managed anything more than feminine, airy half-burps, half-hiccups.
“It’s something all Panislavians learn from a young age,” she replied, grabbing another piece of bacon from the platter in the center of the table. “After all, we’re the only ones who know how it was invented.”
“Invented?”
And so she told me the folktale.
Many, many thousands of years ago, long before people were made, the god of the harvest, Balq, planted a great field of onions and let them grow. He planned to use them for all manner of stews and other dishes to last out the long winter, and looked forward all year to the day when he would pluck them from the earth. But, the day before harvest time, his greedy wife, the goddess Eruc, slipped into the field and devoured row upon row of onions until all of them were resting in her belly.
Balq was furious when he went to the field and saw that all that was left of his onions were holes in the dirt. “Who has eaten my onions?” he demanded of Eruc.
Smiling and rubbing her belly, Eruc said, “Not I! It was Lif, the god of sunrises—I saw him eating your onions!”
Fuming, Balq went after Lif, only for the god of sunrises to tell him that no, he had not even been near the field.
When Balq returned to Eruc, he again asked, “Who has eaten my onions?”
Again smiling and rubbing her belly, Eruc said, “Of course, I knew it couldn’t have been Lif I saw! It was Vasht, the goddess of rivers.”
And so Balq sought out Vasht, only to be told by the goddess of rivers that she had been forming new tributaries all week, and had not been near the field.
Indescribably furious, Balq returned home and said again, “Who has eaten my onions?” Once more Eruc smiled, and rubbed her belly, and said, “Oh, dear, I must not have seen the thief’s face clearly. We are never to know who ate your onions, alas, my husband.”
But Balq was a suspicious sort. And so he went to Clianth, the trickster god, and demanded his help in bringing the thief to justice. Smirking, Clianth produced a goblet from within his robe and poured within it a clear, sweet potion. “Once the thief drinks this,” Clianth said, “you shall know who stole your harvest.”
Returning home, the god of harvests told his wife that he’d just been to see Clianth, who’d given them a remarkable potion as a gift. “I thought it best that it go to you, my beautiful wife,” he said, and offered her the clear, sweet cup.
Eruc, never one to turn down a gift or flattery and certainly never one to turn down both, took the goblet from her husband and drank it down in one swallow, smacking her lips. When she had finished, Balq looked into her eyes, smiled triumphantly, and asked, “Now, who has eaten my onions?”
The goddess opened her mouth to answer Not I, my lord—but instead, a deep roaring like a thunderclap burst past her lips. It was loud, and it was mighty, and it carried on it the distinct, sweet tang of—onions.
For the next week, whenever Eruc tried to speak, nothing would come forth but belching to shame her for her crime. Balq was so taken by Clianth’s invention that, when he shaped humanity ages later, he poured into the ingredients a drop of the trickster god’s potion. As punishment for overindulgence, whenever a human had fallen into gluttony the potion would betray their sin for the world to know.
“But we Panislavians don’t much care for the gods,” Anya finished, taking another bite of bacon, “so we’ve turned their punishment against them. What they intended as a mark of shame is now our highest honor.” And, the story finished, she swallowed her last bite of bacon, leaned her head back, and let forth a short, meaty burp, as if punctuating the end of the tale.
