A Home Cook's Journal of Tastes & Morsels
I made cookies and then I smooshed ’em and I swirled ’em into ice cream. I dolloped that with sweetened condensed milk frosting, topped with more of ’em, crushed. I suppose that isn’t all I learned to do over the course of this most recent revolution around the sun. What a life. Oats and peanut…
How to try and mend a heart. Take a road trip. See new faces. Relocate, as many times as you have to. Read. Don’t read. Lose concentration. Let someone think whatever they want without trying to resolve it. Let that ruin other opinions because it wasn’t your poison, anyway. Practice yoga. Stop practicing yoga. Practice…
Matcha, matcha, matcha. Somewhere, in the space between primary colors. Honeyed hot water and ground green tea whisked with bamboo. Wrists flicking, we move with an M or a W. Crackles as the warm liquid pours over. A lid, and another lid. Shake. Green speckles on white. A storyline, splashed here and there. Unplanned polka…
Pre-Post Script: It is most likely that, if you are reading this, the following is not about you. Staying honest, I had never heard of Bill Smith until his name showed up before the words, “atlantic,” “beach,” and -the real eye-catcher- “pie,” under my thumb. Wasting time on social media. It starts with an ampersand,…
Pretend you identify as female and you own a romper with underwires. They poke and prod. They do not bend. Your move. There is a place in the fabric where you can see a little bud. Do you leave it? Do you tug. And when you tug, don’t you feel better. Nothing gets to state…
Memories of other things. Spreadable. Applicable. A friend says, It is what it was. Breath on windows. Chilly nights, the telephone. Pointer fingers. Secret messages spelled in fog. I am a prism and you are climbing a tree. Sacred space with only goodness because it is time. A little pinch of warmth. Sweet cardamom freckles…
I remember a brick of feta drizzled in olive oil. That’s it? The concept seemed so foreign. Yes. Please. Yes, please. Simple pleasures. Purple buds on tree limbs. A guttural laugh. When you will never let yourself put too much honey in your tea, but someone else does for you and you do not have…
