I want to write about this, so what do I write about? Drinking margaritas with April, our tongues slurring on a concrete banquette? The smell of fresh pumpkins at 7am, scooping the seeds from the flesh? Peeled shallots and baby carrots? Butter softening and sizzling, lemon juice bouncing in a cast iron? Do I write about burned garlic and chicken liver? The way it tenses in the pan? How April writes that it still makes her knees tremble, the sound of it sizzling, the pillowy red livers beginning to brown?
Do I talk about whole parsley? The cute inner leaves with long stems and florets? Do I write about deviled eggs? Cold and vinegary, crushed Maldon salt? Do I talk about the smell of burned garlic? The trash cans full of parmesan rinds and blood oranges? The nights I dream about swiss chard and burning beets? Buratta and marinated peppers? Suckling pigs, hanging in the walk-in? Scoring their skin? Chopping herbs and anchovies? Ripping the heads off of trout, picking the bones from the flesh. Melting the hair off of pig's ears, cooking slowly in duck fat. Carving a pig's head, smoking and rolling it, slicing and breading it.
How corporal it all can be? Carnivorous?
Everything moves quickly, but vividly, colorful in memory. The seasons are defined in menus, colors, the smell of snow falling on the walk to work. Summer left in tattoos and orange suns, sweet corn soup and cilantro. Autumn came in pumpkins and honey crisps and English cheddar. There was milk-braised pork on the menu and we all started wearing thicker sweaters. I learned to roast carrots and carve suckling pigs. Fall was madness and pumpkin seeds, puppies in store windows, blankets and long syllables. Now winter's come in pomegranate seeds and lamb shanks, polenta and haddock and kale. I've learned to fry pancakes and cook bourbon syrup. We wear parkas and tall boots, take night cabs with the city lights behind us, the rivers beginning to ice.
Do I write about that? How equally greyed and poignant it feels? My memory of this is colorful and juicy -- ripping a pomegranate open, the smell of cream scalding, buttery brussels sprouts leaves. Vivid, primal, wild, loud, blurred and confusing, green and blue and distant and immediate and it's all too soon to know what it will be.