25 August 2010

There are bugs in my bread. Not the banana and apple zucchini bread I baked the other day, but the bread I bought at the store to eat for breakfast with almond butter. There’s nothing to do but throw it out, I suppose. The weather is turning cooler, though, leisurely pivoting towards the crispness of autumn—I can tell by the briskness of the weather in the mornings and evenings—so I’ll start having a bowl of cream of wheat for breakfast.

I gave myself one day—yesterday—to be miserable, but no more. These few months will be what I make them. Hermione has helped already. She brightens my apartment and gives me something to nurture. I’ve also started playing music on my computer instead of just sitting in the stark silence. And I’ve been reading a book I’ve never read before instead of just rereading all the books I brought with me. The book—The English Patient, by Michael Ondaatje—is utterly gripping, and I’ve spent my spare moments soaking in the poetic prose; I even took it with me today to the farmers’ market to read since the torrential downpour made customers few.

I have a guilty confession to make. Every now and then when I’m sorting the fruit to pack, I find it: the perfect peach. A blushing spherical duet of burgundy and gold that rests heavily in my palm—the quintessence with which, I imagine, the trees in the Garden of Eden were laden. It would easily sell the over-priced quart of peaches if it were gently balanced and displayed on top of the carton. But I don’t pack it, as I should. Instead, I eat it, savor the burst of sweet sunshine, suck away the sticky juice that bleeds in rivulets over my fingers, consume fuzzed flesh and fruit until I reach the pit. Then I step outside, glance around to make certain no one has discovered my appropriation, toss the small, corrugated heart into the woods, and return to my careful inspection and methodical packing. This has become my surreptitious tradition.