I am here typing and can still taste the lingering tingle of cinnamon on the back of my tongue from lapping up the bit that spilled into my hand when I dosed and prepped the dark roasted coffee in the hopper of the machine that brews my caffeinated morning elixir of goodness and glory.
In the air remain hints of Wednesday’s dinner to be…sweet onion and basil doing a duet, tomato and sugar making eyes at each other, a cymbal splash of the open white wine moving fingers along green pepper contours, laughing with the garlic and minding where the pepper stands, all toughed out. The mayo negotiates and the jalapeño protests, the cayanne whistles at the celery stalking while a little olive oil keeps everyone talking and the parmesean blankets in love.
One in the house came by while I was preparing the Ash Wednesday tomato soup and said “Augh–just the way to spend your evening, eh?”
Actually, I can think of worse…