Full Bellies and Snug Slumbers

Seasoned Plum Summer

window face.

Perhaps Cakes?

Plentiful Pies and Knives.

Smile, Emoticon strangling,

Eat Radishes.

Be Radical.

This morning while walking to class I discovered winter. The snow had not yet come, but the cold wind hit me straight in the chest, and wove its way under my jacket and around my torso. The air smelled crisp, and beyond the chill was a comforting breeze. I hadn't been prepared for the cold, and the lack of scarves and mitts and thick wool socks was agonizing. But something stirred inside me. I could smell change in the chomping shock of each gust, squeezing its way through my eye lids and nostrils, and I could taste it on my ice bitten lips. It wasn't just the soothing memory of snow, or the comfort of cozy knit hats that erupted inside me, but the reminder that with each season comes another chance to absorb inspiration. 




Poetry in bed, muddled thoughts and nonsensical words, comfy dreams, the promise of homemade hot cocoa and warm pies and breads and glazed hams and long movies on the couch with favorite friends. Long naps. Power outages. Sitting on the roof in snow pants just as the sky turns from light to dark. Reading thick books by the scorching wood stove. Annies shells sprinkled with pepper and peas. Bellies burning with red wine and warm faces. Slow cooked lamb. Sausages in mustard sauce and biscuits with extra butter. Lemon tea. Warm baths and christmas music.

Ladies and gentlemen,

do not pass Adobo grill without at least stepping in   

for guacamole and fruit juice.

With the cold also comes the coziness of midnight cooking and ethnic foods wafted through noses between icy inhalations. When my roommates and I had a craving for Mexican, we bundled up in our hats and scarves and mittens and warmest socks and began the long trek to the brown line, reminding ourselves all the way of guacamole prepared right there in front of us, and of enchiladas to warm our bellies, and spicy salsa to warm our taste buds. We enjoyed the calm darkness, the heat from the stove behind the wall, the colorful murals and the spanish music as we gazed out the window at Old Town. I sipped my Mango Pineapple Passionfruit juice and dreamed of Nicaragua's colorful fruit, offered to me by the tree itself. When our bellies were full and could bear no more food, we shared churros. The wind had picked up and the temperature dropped, but the walk back to the station felt mild and refreshing now that my body had finally been satisfied. I left my jacket a little unzipped and allowed my scarf to fly in the breeze behind me. My cheeks were hot and red and my tongue was still buzzing with wild tastes. 

Now I may begin the glorious madness of Thanksgiving plans - sifting through recipes, scoping out grocery stores, planning the menu and remembering the budget, carefully convincing my mother to stock up on wine and champagne, deciding which are the least freezing but most pleasing parts of Chicago in order to best unveil my new home to the family. I will finally have a real kitchen to exult in the therapy of floury noses and boiling noises and salty smells. The ease of my fingers flinging a whisk, or sliding a knife, or tossing things into the pot will no longer be a memory. The sensitivity of spices and serendipity of sauces will finally exit my thoughts and enter the oven. Stay tuned readers, for culinary collaborations and stuffed poultry excavations are fast approaching.