In the heat of the Saint Lucian sun, I crack a pomegranate open on the concrete. The flavor is worth the tedious work of consuming it. Then, I would describe pomegranates as sweet and refreshing. I find my cousin and offer him a portion. Sharing food is an act of love.
In the heat of the Saint Lucian evening, I watch my aunt’s hands knead dough for bakes. She tells me, an almost fully formed person, the secret to her bakes is adding butter to the batter. I take that note and add it to my ever-evolving recipe. It is her way of loving on me. I will be kneading butter into my batter even after I have lost her two years later. My bakes taste of her buttery love.
In the cool breeze of the Saint Lucian evening, I am drinking Campari. I like the way the bitterness lingers. I think that too many people do not appreciate bitterness as a flavor. Bitterness is a firm kiss on the back of your tongue. I let it linger there as I listen to bad karaoke.
In the stillness of the Saint Lucian night, we are the only things moving. Past 2 am we are settling into the worn wooden chairs eating freshly baked bread and cheese. There are two cats and one is being greedy. We talk about ways to feed the skinny cat. It looks so sad.
In an apartment on the east coast, I am cracking a pomegranate open for my two-year-old son. It is an act of love. I like the way he eats them one by one with precision and focus. It is a mirroring of the way I separate them from their fleshy prison. Now, I would describe the taste as honeycomb tart; the way I expect love to taste. Prepping food is an act of love.
In the coldness of a New York winter, I am kneading dough for bakes. I am pressing into it the love of my aunt. These are all the ways she loved me and all the ways I will love my family. Butter, can’t forget the butter. My recipe is close to perfect but my love is ever-evolving. I am making bakes for three.
In the joy of his presence, I am drinking Campari and white rum. We don’t care about the taste although the bitterness is a welcome anchor for the sweetness of his tongue on mine. There are no songs in any of the languages to express the flavor combination. I want the taste to linger forever at its crescendo. He must appreciate bitterness as a flavor.
In the frantic energy of New York’s financial district, I am the only thing silent watching the water ebb and flow. I have surely gotten larger but sometimes I can feel life nipping away at the joy I have carefully kneaded. The skinny cat thinks… your writing feeds me. And so I answer the call. Type rabidly into my phone all the stories, all the voices, all the flavors, all the thoughts eagerly plumping the skinny cat up. She should never be sad. Sharing stories is an act of love.
For all of you who have already subscribed thanks so much!! This week’s newsletter is a small taste of what my paid subscribers will be getting. Tune in next Tuesday for my next newsletter a compilation of books you should read in 2024! Here’s a quote to hold you over:
"She kicks ass, she punches faces, and she spits on the patriarchy!! She’s my kind of woman. I read it in less than 24 hours.”
For those of you who haven’t subscribed yet, it’s never too late to join my smart and funny subscribers (nickname pending)!
Finally got to listen in. So good - I feel like I know better now how food for you is a preservation of self and home. I already knew this, but it feels different when there are words to back it up. Happy you’re here - we’ve come a long way from exchanging books and notes in history class.
Loved this short love story. I also enjoy bitterness, and used take out pomegranates one by one. Listening to it and reading it, made my heart feel full. Lovely writing.