I have posted before about the pleasures of various meals–the creating of them, the eating of them… I suppose in more than one way, it feeds my poetic soul to experience something with as many senses as possible. Writing somehow has become another one of them. Another way of experiencing, nearly another sense all together–to infuse with expression and therefore experience at another level.
It is with that in mind that I find myself wanting to write about the sudden inspiration that came to me as I crossed an avenue while out on a wander this afternoon. I solved a problem, or at least self-proposed a solution, within the course of moving about fifteen steps East to West. With ambulances sounding uptown, cabs honking downtown and an argument ensuing, and business people whisking by, folded newspapers brushing my sleeves, my mind was suddenly filled with orange juice, butter, cinnamon, just enough sugar to make a syrup, and apples. Instead of fumes, I was already smelling the sweet heady steam of granny smiths in a skillet that would be layered on top of an apple crisp I had made for someone’s birthday dessert. The Macintosh apples I had used shrank considerably in the cooking process and something needed to be added. How to make more without undoing?
I bought five Grannies on the way home, sliced them with skin on straight from the whole apple, heated the skillet with the butter, orange juice, and cinnamon, added the apples, sprinkled sugar on top, and let chemistry work her wonder. It smelled great, tasted wonderful (a cook must sample, right?), and filled up the top with lovely, syrupy, appley, al dente, slices of Fall.
I think I need to get out more often.