Careful and careful, not for fear but for love of every movement, the single placement of each hand is thought of, is poetry. Sugar, heavy. Butter. Stir like you're mixing paint for your canvas. One egg. Crack it with grace. Your last night on stage, the flying exit into the wings. Flour. Careful, sweet, the dusting of flour, the smell. Vanilla extract, baking powder, salt. And stir. And scoop. Don't taste it. Let it be a surprise. Bow your here you are sir to the open oven. And wait.
Peel a mandarin. Be fastidious about the strands of rind. Listen to a song Belle recommends. At the sink in the bathroom, I watch myself in the mirror, think of how I did something twenty minutes ago that I admire, something two hours ago that I'm almost ashamed of. I am right now, the one I make eye contact with in the mirror.
This is beautiful. Painful? A little. It's so carefully written, I feel as if I should whisper, or tiptoe, for fear of interrupting or breaking what you've created.
ReplyDeleteWonderful. As always.
gah, you make the baking process sound so lovely. ^. ^
ReplyDeletethis is warm and sharp and incredible.
ReplyDeleteI like this very much. I often think thoughts similar to this as I do my daily baking and cooking of our family's special food needs. Thank you, c.
ReplyDelete