November 8, 2010
By 5:30 this afternoon, I was knee deep in a love affair with my senses. And the whole, torrid time, Mark was by my side, rooting me on, as he himself whispered love notes to his own eyes and ears and tongue and nose.
This is what happens when you pop in an excellent mix CD while preparing a really beautiful dinner.
Beth Orton sang us love songs while we tongued slightly bitter slivers of Manchego cheese between swallows of a pretty fine glass of white wine. Granted, I know nothing about wine, and judge my gulps by a gag-reflex measuring stick, but, still, it seemed pretty smooth going down. And the whole bottle cost more than $5, so who am I to question its heritage?
My nose came to life as I crushed bulbs of fresh garlic, setting it free in a shallow pool of balsalmic vinegar and olive oil. I let it take a lap or two around the bowl before rubbing the rich, dark mixture onto our room-temperature t-bones. This was getting good. And we hadn't even started in on the pickled asparagus or beer bread.
All of this after a leisurely walk outside, where blood-red maples and dusty, warm air tickled my eyes and nose until I could barely contain my joy.
What is life like without music or crushed garlic or crunchy leaves beneath your feet? What is life without the scent of the earth turning? Without the umami earthiness of steak, seared over hot coals?
I'd rather not find out, thank you.
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