Honey and blackberries remain right now the most heavenly piece of my day today. Anne had honey and blackberries which she shared. But more accurately it began with cilantro.
Upon my arrival in the cafeteria I found Anne sitting with a small horde of freshly bought fresh things; like a glorious array of life; like a bounty offered as feast for esteemed guest, and I wanted to cry at the sight of the cilantro, which remains my favorite of coriander plants.
Immediately I began that deadly of sins, to covet the bundle of chinese parsley, its tall skinny stalks ending in waving leaves all wrapped in red rubber band and still wet with a grocery store sprayed dew. I could practically taste the crunch of the stalks, the lemony flavor unique to cilantro which has a slight soapy taste which I adore; my memory of cilantro so exorcised it was almost as if I already had it in my mouth. And so immediately I said, niceties aside in favor of greed, “Cilantro!” As a way to introduce my asking, hunger, and nearly unbearable excitement. “Can I have some?”
Of course Anne is Anne and “Yes, yes of course,” emphatically in her low throaty voice like it was given, which for Anne ‘of course’ it was. And then it began.
The cilantro went into two salads, the cafeteria salads which usually tastes of fresh death, not fresh vegetables as it should, but remains salad so I eat them. After the cilantro was the offer of onion, which I only took a slice and chopped up very finely with the plastic white knife; then into the salad with care like it was fruit of aphrodite, and not plain white onion. And then ginger, which was even more difficult to cut with with said knife, but only a small amount was able to convey the taste of the ginger to the whole of the salad. And then there were pomegranate seeds, all scooped out into a single serving cup, which was little used on Anne’s salad yet. Those went over my regular lettuce,cilantro, onion and garlic display to add color, the pop of the violet fruit/seeds like the adornment of rubies upon a bodice. And then was the offer of those to go packets of salt and pepper, three of them all over the salad, sans dressing; a dressing would have covered all this ladys’ naked glory. That I could not do.
Then, the simple chicken nuggets which were served for lunch in this cafeteria today, were chopped up so fine one would swear they were nuts, for the addition of protein. And then the eating of such a wonderful concoction.
It might not have been the food, but perhaps the high Anne had already climbed to before I arrived, on sugar and jalapenos, and the good food for a change, which was what lent itself to me on some esoteric/astral/vibrational level and gave me the feeling I was also so pleased. Or perhaps it was the food. I cannot say which as I am incredibly impaired by the impressions I received all while eating.
The taste of just enough ginger, the addition of just enough salt and pepper, the right amount of salad, two servings of a regular salad, removed of cucumber and tomato disgrace, and then the addition of cilantro as the base. The onion and pomegranate seeds were just garnish; the chicken gave it body; and the entire thing was made much of over the course of a very silent, except to gush and yum, lunch.
And then there were blackberries and honey.
The blackberries were round and plump and looked sweet in their little plastic box. The richness of them led me to not even ask until offered; and then it was the last which lay coating the bottom of it, more than I expected to have. Even once offered I only took a few, too distracted by the salad to notice for a bit. I was not the sort to enjoy sweet on my salad, but then, the honey came to the table. And for a minute I contemplated the addition of it to the berries and, upon the invitation to partake, I tried it.
And dear fucking god.
Blackberries and honey are like heaven come to earth; the above parting to allow the shine of divine light fall upon mortal eye and bearing. I will swear until I die I saw the heavens part above my head, to my right, right in the ceiling white. I will swear the taste of blackberries and honey to be of the most divine, for the taste when combined cannot be compared.
The honey, when a berry is hand dipped in, coats the bubbles in the berry, until they become outlined in gold, the fruit magnified in the amber. Oh, I wished to take a picture of that beauty; oh, I wished to use my professional camera to do so; oh, I wished to document such beauty for future reminiscence. But I could not tear myself away from the meal to save my life. And so I ate it instead. I truely, at first, only meant to eat one. But …
The honey and blackberry concoction candied the bite in my mouth like no candy I’d ever enjoyed. It was like the richness of gold and the light of heaven had come together in my mouth to mate and produce this offspring of joy. And I was so awed and in such enjoyment I allowed myself to eat another, and then another. And then it mattered not if I was modest, it mattered not if I ate them all, I had been offered, and they were so good; and the salad lay forgotten in the wake of such an event, in the wake of such miraculous beauty.
I felt high. Anne and I spoke of that feeling. I told her it felt like heaven come home. We talked about the food and nothing else. And, once, I asked her if she had any thoughts in her head. She confirmed there were none. Oh yes, it was a divine moment. There, in that space, we were in the moment. And that moment was heaven.
The salad did get finished. I ate the end of it after the berries were done. I couldn’t even speak of the event afterwards, however; it was too beautiful for words. I expected to never speak of it again but argued myself into writing of it, just because I wished to remember. And Anne was on the computer kitty-corner from me, looking up more food to eat, promising an even greater feast next saturday.
Just a minute ago she asks, ‘Is there a store that sells just nuts?”