I sat at the kitchen table finishing all the potatoes that I had to eat, because they just wouldn't be good the next day. (Or so was my excuse.) Redolent of the meal I had cooked the duck in, smelling of carrots and ginger, I mopped up the oil and salt with each bit—the outside crunching while the insides burst forth in well-cooked potato-y softness. I put on a good album that always loosens my shoulders. I was drinking some nice red wine that warmed my innards. I started reading a short story by Don Delillo that I had been holding onto for a while and the beginning made me smile--two college pals walking the train tracks pondering what they thought to be philosophical quandaries. Earlier, I had stepped out onto the porch, cold and wickedly windy, to see the moon stark and white in the deep blue winter sky. It was strikingly and fiercely beautiful.
All of this was humming inside me so I had to stop and write it down. I love moments--how numerous subtle influences crescendo into a palpable feeling that washes over you, all senses reeling. Or maybe not reeling--maybe soaking, or sensing, or quietly formulating, to create a code, a scent, a thread, a little story that feels like a great, old coat. So right that you almost regret taking it off. But a meal has to end, for the next one to come, now, doesn't it?