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Whenever I’m with you I feel like I am home again. I will always love you. The old song, The Cure, played by Chappy, a fat guy around my own age and I am in a too tight, red dream t-shirt, no bra after washing the dog, cutting the fruits, chopping the nuts, using only the best ingredients in my very expensive fruitcakes.
How many years now have I attempted to find the perfect recipe, for both us in love and the Christmas cakes? This one is recommended by the New York Times, a recipe calling for kosher salt and pistachio’s.
Yesterday, I got the farm eggs from Bill, he shrugged his large, eighty-year-old shoulders when I pulled up, meaning I’m fresh out and I had had the thought that he might be after a sunny weekend and so little light, 4:30 dark of our north-coast hamlet. But upon mention of baking the cakes he turned for the house, took the dozen he had in his own fridge and gave them to me, told me he didn’t tell his wife, that he’d already boiled up eight or so and eaten half of them up already.
The kitchen is spilling over with fresh sun, though the angle is already low by noon. I follow my thoughts through the years, how Bill at eighty now seems young, the way in which I’ve stood so many times at this cutting-board preparing love for my family, for the neighbors, for the birthday parties and the foil-wrapped Christmas plates I’ll have the kids deliver, Susan, Dan & Heather, The Devil worshipper's and Roger and his shrimp crew and of course the ones for you too.
Whatever words I say, I will always love you.
Video Credit: janelleloesmusic/youtube
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Always such a pleasure and a boost to find this in my inbox :)
And I always love your writing
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Thanks, marianne! Hope you're doing well :)
Whenever I have a free moment I scroll down what you've been writing while I was away.
So this one reaches me today. Ehr already mused upon how your depiction of sun and eggs and age blend into a melancholic revery to match the Cure cover. It is this song which really adds that timeless-time dimension of passing time. Passing through fruits and nuts and red dresses into ..... yeah, you tell me.... coming back out like a freshly laid egg some other day.
How some things last (The Cure songs, special efforts, right timing), how memories linger, how this is all we have with which to defy death.
Oh, and love....
Thank you for reading and your observations--I think it can be more fun to read the responses than write the posts :)
You have a gift for making me sad. Why do I think of the 80 year old in mourning, where he is still alive and gives me eggs? Your way of expression knocks me over. And the eggs symbolize the sun, because the afternoon is already getting dark. And yet there is your talent to make me sad.
So something like that.
There is such an incredible amount of love in your recipes.
I guess it's a gift ;)
As always being moved in some emotional way is the aim of my writing and that voice perhaps comes from that side of my character.
Yes, much love.
The perfect recipe for love….now that’s something you could sell without any marketing at all
It’s the midweek prompt delivery team here with the challenge for today: https://steemit.com/freewrite/@mariannewest/day-411-5-minute-freewrite-wednesday-prompt-inbox
Yes, indeed! Can you tell me the ingredients please?
Weird how fast time seems to pass by at certain moments (or we are aware of it).
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