During this morning’s meditation, I had a moment of ultimate clarity. I was totally synched to the universe, at one with myself and all the energy swirling around me. It hit me as hard as a punch to the gut, but a punch delivered by a unicorn wearing cotton candy boxing gloves.
I can only hope that sort of thing will keep happening. It sure made going to work easier.
Having a sparrow ask for a bite of my sandwich at lunch didn’t do any harm, either.
Have I moved into some sort of parallel universe where the impossible becomes possible? Has the inside of my psyche become the Magic Kingdom? Will I be required to pay royalties to Disney for that?
Or has the continuing heatwave finally melted the last tenuous strands of sanity knocking around inside my head?
Once in a very long while the celestial orbs put down their toys long enough to smile on someone who really needs it, and she has the good sense to offer thanks as rich and deep as a chocolate fudge volcano.
At long last, stone fruit season, as the Brits so charmingly put it,
is upon us and I was finally able to do my darling tart justice
with nectarines, apricots, blueberries,
and a heaping dollop of anticipation.
It was worth the wait.
She ecstasized me with culinary bliss.
(Yes, I made that word up. She deserves it.)
I have fallen more deeply in love with her than ever.
Alas, in the depth of the night,
I caught the wily minx cheating on me.
After all I have given her,
what kind of gratitude is that?
But I finally figured out why I love her so much. Her pastry is like shortbread but lighter. I still can’t get ricotta, so have been using mascarpone, and this time cottage cheese—mascarpone was better. The tartness of the fruit, cheese and lemon zest are perfectly balanced by the delicate sweetness of sugar and honey. To quote le pirate, being with her is like “having baby unicorns tickle your nose.”
There’s plenty of Fancy French Frou-Frou available here, but the pastry is usually somewhere between cardboard and concrete, the filling is sticky, tooth-fuzzing custard and the fruit has no flavor.
As is often the case in Japan, form is more important than content. It doesn’t really matter what’s in the box as long as the present is beautifully wrapped.
My imperfect tart, I love you as you are, uneven edges, disoriented fruit, warts and all.
I can’t seem to keep my hands off of her. Images of her dance in my head, obsessing me, drawing me deeper and deeper into her world. People do crazy things when they’re in love—I spent yesterday afternoon scouring the neighborhood, hoping to surprise her with fresh rhubarb. But alas, that was not to be. Instead I gave her strawberries and blueberries, as promised.
It took her 40 minutes to primp and preen as she prepared for our date. I sat upstairs, waiting, her intoxicating perfume fueling my anticipation. Would our second date be as good, as satisfying, as glorious as our first?
It was better…infinitely better.
I have another confession to make, though. I have cheated on her already. I would climb the highest mountain for her, swim the deepest sea, but I don’t have a food processor and couldn’t face the agony of blending the flour and butter by hand. I used soft margarine instead. I thought she would be angry, but it didn’t seem to bother her.