a gleaming cut of halibut, dense chickpeas, tiny portobello mushrooms and fresh tarragon. the various textures meld in a fragrant tangle, a few drops of yuzu and a grating of the fragrant yuzu peel.
served late, warmed, with a glass of pinot noir, a simple dish after a day of writing, making attempts at a now distant past.
what sounds so easy, to describe that past, is for me difficult. i catch myself embellishing a scene, painting the dark of those woods, where we found chanterelles just about this time of year. life seemed so much simpler then, summer days idly spent in the small village, lighthearted, jaunty. i am glad reflecting those images, my first ride on my aunt's bike, steadied, held safe from behind, her hand on the saddle and suddenly free, careening zigzag, then a picture, prompting the ditch on the side of the narrow.
google now shows old country lanes as straight highways, though the church still frowns from its hilltop, the village has turned into a small town, party phone lines yielding to handys, children, then not yet a thought, have grown to be people.