If we were to start anew, we might do it all differently, bolstered by knowing. We might be less like first-time lovers or new puppies, fumbling between tentative and exuberant.
We might first take stock in ourselves, be realistic about our imprinting. We might bow first, out of respect, thinking less about how each could carve the other to our liking and more about what must be preserved. We would eliminate the film of romance.
If we were to begin again, fresh, we might think to notice where dust would gather and sink, might look first at the grooves and scars and indentations, be more careful of what they could hold.
We might sooner call the carpenter, the doctor, the vet, the marriage therapist, the fitness trainer. We would keep our books in order, avoid the sand traps, head straight for the smooth path, the steady winds, and like a hot knife through butter we’d sail.
If we were to start anew – this house, this work, this union, this body, this life – we would be better, stronger, kinder, less inhibited.
But here we are, in the middle of things, inheritors of misshapen fields we planted. What we have done, we’ve done.
Let us not now squander the riches, fret over the crack in the ceiling while ignoring the warm sunny corner, the place where the armchair sits.
No. Today we must tend to our crops as they are. Today – and again tomorrow – we will forage our fields for a feast and a bouquet, keen for new shoots, mindful of thorns and poisons. We will use the old sticks to weave a wreath for our door, a nest for our bed. We will walk gingerly over soft spots, thankful for ones that held firm, sure of what we are and are not, settling into this old house of ours.
Food | Week of February 15, 2016
All from my own archive this week; no Plated; no Gathered Table; keep it simple.