birch and grasses alone on the snow, grey sky indistinguishable. the flat world falls into the edge of time, lifeless, dull wedge of horizon and soundless ...
28 August 2008
Beets, deep red beets, baked in foil, cooled and peeled. Pulled out of the refrigerator for lunch, sliced and drizzled with olive oil, vinegar and pepper. Earthy and exalted, my tastebuds are transformed into terroir: they are the earth itself, exposed rock rooted in sweetness, rich soil to which we'll return, concentrated life densely lived, fruit of the earth and memory. I am the earth in which they grow; strike me dead and beets will grow where my spirit deserts my empty body.
Posted by Patrick