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Nectarine Process
Sep. 14th, 2003 07:00 pmThe kitchen smells of nectarines.
The fruit is not-quite soft, slightly bruised, and scarred from thrips. I eat the scarred parts I'm cutting away - it's dripping and sweet. The lopsided eigths fall into the heaping bowl and threaten to tumble down the hills of the mound. I've set aside three of the best fruit for snacking tomorrow.
The little yellow fruit knife I'm using with its faded Coast-to-Coast Hardware logo, presses against the cut I acquired this morning from the cat food can. It stings a bit. So do the half-healed scabs on my hands.
I've got a quiche in the oven, and eleven jars of jam on the sideboard. Five are unsugared, six show the deep purple stain of the blackberries I'd had in the freezer since almost the last millenium. I'll try plain sugared and nectarine-pepper jam next.
I'm tired. I slept 'til noon after a couple of lovely hours dancing with Miss Kasha, Miss Lori looking on. My throat is sore - receeding a bit with advil and gallons of tea, but still sore.
I'd stay home tomorrow, sleep in and wake to make myself tea, but I've a computer on my desk I've had for two weeks, and the user returns from her vacation tomorrow. I'm still not finished with it.
The fruit is not-quite soft, slightly bruised, and scarred from thrips. I eat the scarred parts I'm cutting away - it's dripping and sweet. The lopsided eigths fall into the heaping bowl and threaten to tumble down the hills of the mound. I've set aside three of the best fruit for snacking tomorrow.
The little yellow fruit knife I'm using with its faded Coast-to-Coast Hardware logo, presses against the cut I acquired this morning from the cat food can. It stings a bit. So do the half-healed scabs on my hands.
I've got a quiche in the oven, and eleven jars of jam on the sideboard. Five are unsugared, six show the deep purple stain of the blackberries I'd had in the freezer since almost the last millenium. I'll try plain sugared and nectarine-pepper jam next.
I'm tired. I slept 'til noon after a couple of lovely hours dancing with Miss Kasha, Miss Lori looking on. My throat is sore - receeding a bit with advil and gallons of tea, but still sore.
I'd stay home tomorrow, sleep in and wake to make myself tea, but I've a computer on my desk I've had for two weeks, and the user returns from her vacation tomorrow. I'm still not finished with it.
