slick skin, smooth flesh, wide pit. slicing it in half and cubing the flesh the way my best friend learned to do in Hawaii, eating the cubes off the knife blade without cutting our tongues. mango sorbet and in lassi at the Indian place on the corner. sweet and cool from some place far away. a little bit of sunshine, even in winter, at the grocery store.
quenches a certain soul thirst, chocolate. dark, slightly bitter, sweet. when I'm pms-ing it's the only thing I want. or when I'm tired or need inspiration. not always, but sometimes, I want it. with pretty foil wrappers from Costa Rica, San Francisco, Germany, I always get it e.v.e.r.y.w.h.e.r.e. when I eat it. always on my pants. my fingers, my lips. for kisses and licking off. or in winter in a cup, liquid with whipped cream, snow falling.
from Spain, sliced fine on salad and pasta. sitting around the kitchen table with friends, laughing, playing scrabble, eating crackers and this flaky cheese by the mouthfuls. cutting thin wedges with a sharp knife on a wooden board. nibbling it while dinner's cooking with olives, dried figs, wine.
every morning he wakes up and pulls perfect shots for me from his bright red espresso maker, pours them over ice with milk and sugar in the summer. or in winter, hot with extra foam. coffee houses around the world brewing up this stuff of late nights and early morning. my writer's inspiration. my accompaniment on long train rides to work. and now, in a red to-go mug every morning for a walk with my man and my boy.
throwing half eaten cherries at each other in the orchard when we were small, until we looked freckled with some strange disease of bright red spots the size of quarters. spitting pits as far as we can across the driveway. always stain my clothes. cherries bring summer. roadside stands. hot, dark red, firm. nothing better.
beekeepers know secrets about waggle dances and sun meridians. honey bees, makers of magic sweet stuff, keep pollinating crops year after year. without them, our food supply would be threatened world wide. think watermelon, apples, zucchini, pumpkins, basil, chives. yet the bee blight is ravaging hives everywhere. someday I will keep bees. till then I eat the honey straight from the comb, licking my fingers and thinking of the remarkable wonder that is a beehive.
summer nights, in the kitchen making fresh pasta with farmer's market tomatoes, basil. after dinner with a glass, fingering the stem while looking at stars and fireflies on the porch the baby asleep. the way his kiss tastes, slightly bittersweet, after a glass.