Picking and Chewsing.

But mastication is a lost art, like asking for an increase in salary—and getting away with it. At one time— before Time became money (and vicey vertigo)—eating was one of the finer arts, and “still-life” received respect from plate to palate. It was dressed with distinction, received at the board with suitable ceremony and given a fair trial before being sentenced to digestive detention. It was quietly questioned by the palate before meeting the molars and cavorting with the cuspids, and the full flavour of its innermost meaning was extracted from its essence. Finally, it was kissed long and lingeringly by the palate and introduced into the interior. But those were the days when mastication was a primary industry rather than a secondary consideration; when soup was not snuffled but inhaled, and lunch was not a snatch-as-snatch-can but a leisurely gesture to the digestion.

There's Art in everything, From soup to bread? Oh, death, where is they sting, If Art is dead?