Wednesday, June 24, 2015
Sometimes abundance appears before me - effortlessly - ripe on the vine, bursting with color and flavor, kissed by the sun, surrounded by fragrant blooms. Even before I pluck it and bring it to my lips I can taste its sweetness, feel its juice dripping down my chin.
Those moments pass too quickly.
In the between when the world goes from fertile to fallow, veiled in gray, I must, I must, taste the sweetness again. But how, when my eyelids are heavy, my energy stores empty? Like a desert wanderer, I squint and see - whether by imagination or inspiration or a heady mirage - the water and the juicy morsels. It is enough to get me up and at 'em, to light candles, to pour a drink, to mince, to chop, to stir, to cook up nourishment for the tired traveler.
Tonight there was pasta, simply prepared with garlic, nuts and herbs, adorned with a small pile of curly parmesan and a sprinkling of crushed peppers. It looked ordinary steaming in its bowl, but I swirled it around the spoon and took bite after bite. The oil pooled on my lips and as I slowly licked it away I tasted a different kind of abundance with its own brand of sweetness - the kind I can create.