adorned with some kind of “reduction.”) After we ordered, the
waiter brought Heylmun a spoon for her soup. Civille held up
her hand for another. “We share everything,” she informed him.
“You should see us when we go out with a group of Sensory
people,” Heylmun said. “We take our bread plates and pass
them around. What you get back is half your meal and a little
bit of everyone else’s.”
The soup came. The two of them dug in. “Oh, it’s fabulous,”
Civille said and cast her eyes heavenward. She handed me her
spoon. “Taste it.” Heylmun and Civille both ate with small,
quick bites, and as they ate they talked, interrupting each other
like old friends, jumping from topic to topic. They were very
funny and talked very quickly. But the talking never
overwhelmed the eating. The opposite was true: they seemed to
talk only to heighten their anticipation of the next bite, and
when the next bite came, their faces took on a look of utter
absorption. Heylmun and Civille don’t just taste food. They
think about food. They dream about food. Having lunch with
them is like going cello shopping with Yo-Yo Ma, or dropping in
on Giorgio Armani one morning as he is deciding what to wear.
“My husband says that living with me is like a taste-a-minute
tour,” Civille said. “It drives everyone in my family crazy. Stop