what seclusion does to the appetite

It’s not strictly the seclusion, but I will call it that. There are lunches packed away, and on Sunday, dinner. I find myself rising in the morning, boiling water for coffee and laying on the hardwood floor, on the blue Oriental rug, stretching. Two hours later, I want something. There is always bread, different varieties, from the plain slices of whole wheat to fists of thick, brown bread, to discreet cuts of something whole grain with raisins or seeds, nuts embedded like jewels. I dip my knife into the peanut butter that is lasting me for a week, maybe two; the jam is untouched. After coffee it’s time for green tea, countless mugs. Sometime after 1pm, unless I’ve been working since early morning, I hunger for something else. Today was black beans and corn with small triangles of corn tortilla, pepper jack for melting. I sit in the window seat with the outdated issue of Harper’s and eat, spilling something for certain every time—my clothes with their little stains in this place where I can change clothes for dinner and no one will care or know the difference. My sweet buds seem to have been turned off, not even to be flipped back on with the bit of homemade apricot jam, or huckleberry pie, the latter I carved a smidgen triangle of. Ice cream and rice dream don’t tempt me right now. I take a walk in the forest, sidestepping banana slugs and come back to a chilled kitchen, perfect for chai black tea with a bit of half and half. I brought two cookies home, to try them out on my appetite, this suddenly fickle thing, moony as it has been, constantly wanting to stop and look at the sky instead of be satisfied, and the chocolate chip and coconut send messages like galvanize and alchemize coursing through me. At dinner, I shift into social gear, required for the communal meal. I’m always glad to sit down with the masterpieces I’ve put on my plate, fresh from the garden, fresh from the hands of women who so completely put their love into the cooking that you can’t overlook it; it’s the main ingredient. There’s the baby eagle in the tree, the inlet, the mountain in the distance, the dormant volcano. I return to my seclusion and wait for the moment when a Belgian beer would be most right, once night has fallen and the tree canopy is silhouetted against the inky blue sky. A day is finished. Seven days are finished, eight. My appetite rises, falls, sweeps like a wind. I go with it.

Comments

[boy howdy]

damn, kid. you got it. beautiful.
xo
-bh

[Sarah B]

Delish dearest, delish.