Wednesday, May 4, 2011
The sun today is triggering thoughts of summer and has me wanting what only summer can give. I would easily pay ten dollars for a small perfectly ripe tomato, fifteen if freshly plucked and still warm from the sun. Perfectly ripe, yes, but not perfectly round. I prefer my tomatoes misshapen. My knife would be sharp and gently pierce the skin, minimal juice drunk by the wood surface of my cutting board. Each slice would be carefully placed atop bread and butter of the best quality, or not at all. A tilt of the cutting board and scrape with the blade to collect any lost juice. To finish, the lightest dusting of my favorite fleur de sel, if only I could find another jar. Like tomatoes, salt is not salt. And then I'd give it all a long look, saving the visual aspects for later, to help recall the taste. I'd inhale the scent while taking my first bite. I would chew ever so slowly. I'd insist you take a bite.
If you believe in the power of memory, or want to be convinced, read Molly's poems, The Recent History Of Middle Sand Lake. Incredibly moving. Graceful, sad, and beautiful.