Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens,
Brown paper packages tied up with …”
. . . Oh, there you are! . . . um … well . . . hm-m . . . awkward . . .
Oh come on, admit it, at least 83% of you know the tune and most of the words!
Mrs Widdershins made us bacon-n-eggs for supper the other evening. Bacon; crispy, eggs; over-easy. (yolks liquid and the whites solid) It was a divine taste sensation, and one of my favourite foods. I haven’t had them for a quite a while. I don’t know why, there was other stuff to eat I suppose.
Just a little while ago, I ate a tomato sandwich, another taste sensation that I hadn’t indulged in for quite a while. Nothing fancy, tomato, a dash of salt and pepper on fresh baked bread.
Although we share the cooking fairly evenly, Mrs Widdershins is the undisputed baker of the household. On baking days we’ve been known to throw open the windows and let the aromas waft on the breeze, to torture the other tenants and innocent passers-by. (passer-bys?)
I suspect this nasty cold I had for the last two weeks has suppressed my taste buds and accounted for my passionless palette.
I sometimes wander through my old journals by picking one at random and reading a page here and there. It’s a form of time-travel. A snapshot of what I thought about Life, the Universe, and 42, a decade or two ago. What I liked and what I didn’t. Fried eggs and tomato sandwiches have always been favourites. (not on the same plate however)
I believe that I evolve and grow as a woman as the years progress, but these last few meals I’ve eaten and journal pages I’ve read tell me another side of the story.
Some aspects of ourselves don’t change.
My palate may delight in a more sophisticated range of sensations, and my thoughts on a topic may shift radically, (sometimes 180°) but the core of who I am, the being that was formed by genetics, the time before I chose this life, and my childhood onwards, still enfold the essential me.
I like her, a lot.
“I have come to believe over and over again that what is most important to me must be spoken, made verbal and shared, even at the risk of having it bruised or misunderstood” – Audre Lorde