 It’s the grande allée between green bean and Hubbard squash season. Maybe my favourite vegetables. Sorry, celery root. I like to blanch beans, quickly fry them with garlic, and snug them against a roast chicken. Good hunger is standing beside my friend Ghaithaa at the stove while she makes Fasoulia with the flat green beans she loves. Sizzling heaps of thinly sliced garlic and green onions in ghee. An embarrassment of salted butter is all a roasted Hubbard squash needs. The garden grows like a fever in September. A desire path, a wheelbarrow tire wide runs between it and the kitchen. *** Scarlet rosehips are luminous in the dinnertime sun. A geisha’s lips. Spent blooms hang like an Issey Miyake among them. The Rosa Blanda metamorphosis. The scent on a hot July night hangs in memory’s closet. *** I recognise myself as a writer while reading Duncan J. Watts, Five Feet at a Time. I’m working on a project and striking out in several directions, like the ink blots. A colleague once commented on my mind-map note-taking. My concentration on one thing caps out at three hours. Of course, I can get caught in a flow that lasts a day. But in figuring out how to be productive, I’m learning to flip the switch. And the solo climber metaphor he uses in the title is the way. *** I don’t have much extra, but there’s always enough for: Eating cassis sorbet in Trinity Bellwoods. The French know how to extract the lush essence from fruit. Ripeness has to rise above the numbing effect of cold. In flavour and texture, sorbet is a masterclass. Stopping at the Polish deli for a raspberry donut. Two quarters change back from two dollars. A cheap thrill. Puffed like a foam pillow stuffed in a velum sugar case. Carried home in a small brown paper bag. Eaten while I make coffee. *** The songs go out to a friend from high school. 19721978Comments are closed.
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