Edit: Not to sound like a broken record, dear friends, but if the cards and letters in my inbox are any indication, there still seems to be some confusion as to the authorship of the post below. No, I haven't discovered a newfound sense of peace and whimsy, nor have my photography skills improved a thousandfold. What follows comes from the pen and shutter of the beauteous McBeth, who would be on quadruple probation for jacking my blog without giving me so much as a warning, only she's just so damn funny and sweet...
Mon DIEU et voila, who will believe that I am inviting my dear readership into the luxurious bounty of my two beautiful (but natural. nature versus neuter. nothin' nefariously manufactured here, more along if you're all for super or subnatural, that's a different state altogether and none of the 50 really wants to discuss it publicly) scoops? No one, that's who. But hells bells, that has never prevented me from opening up and offering out ...
Take. Munch. This is my pinecone which is given for you. Take. Lick. This is my berry drop goodness shed for you. For as often as we lay these bricks criss-crossedly or fotografically find foods in nature, you do this for the rememberance of me.
Lloyderina may have a thing or two to say (or not, it may be as insignificant as the barely visible shift of an eyebrow hair) about my two luscious and oh-so-lickable scoops. In the rock stars sans guitar category, Lloyderina stands alone due to his general cool hang-out-ability. But like I say, he's not afraid to go lookin for the tall grown-up glasses we only take down when company comes visiting so he can pour me another round of ShutTheHellUp when we both need a long drink. What can I say, some phraseology just sticks with a person.
Hmm, what else might this recipe need? Oo! I know! A dash of heaviness. That's what I need to finish this off, yes! I cannot send my lovely readers away lusting after my conages, c'est ne pas bonbon dee bon. Bring it around, sister, you can DO this! Loads of ennui dappled with ash sprinkles. We could all ponder our growth processes together (please make no mistake though, I don't want to have to think about your growth. I've got a constant battle on my hands managing my own. Send me your Cliff Notes, I'll browse it later and can then tell you if you're onto something. Hold hands with your neighbor now, this could get rocky ...
Kuhmmmmmm byyyyeeee aahhhhhhhhhhh mahhhhLorrrrrrrd
Kuhmmmmmm byyyyeeee aahhhhhhhhhhh
How silly of me to ever doubt my own beauty.
That's what I really just need to say. I have a process - my process - my peculiar process (pat.pend.) but eventually, when I'm done following my peculiar process (pat.pend.) I come back to what I know is true. Shaddap. I DO!
I'm not a frump.
I've never been a frump.
I sometimes wear the frump's costume, just so I can be sure to understand her perspective should I ever feel the need to defend her against rooty-tooty fresh n'fruity know-it-alls who think they do while the rest of us giggle at the holyFUCKisn'titobvious fact that they SO don't.
But I am absolutely and most definitely not a frump.
Stick that in your cone and lick it, sweethearts.
'Tis I, the lovely and talented Bakerina back from my trip! This was the first time I've driven my Hummer outside of Manhattan, and I'm happy to report it handles the interstates beautifully! Since I don't get out much, imagine my astonishment upon discovering one can actually get food at rest stops! They have these machines with candy bars inside, and you put money in them, and they have these other machines that make change if you don't have it, and you can get candy bars from the first machine, but you can only get them out one at a time, so it takes awhile to get a full meal! But I managed! (See above!) And I got all that for less than the price of a tank of gas!
Walking down Old Spain or Back Old Spain, I’ve never been sure which it is or why, but I know I need some of the intense red sweetness there. Domestic strawberrydom is forever bankrupt to me because I‘ve known these perfect gems.
I pass the factory my grandfather lost. He put it so close to the house we still live in, so close to the unclearly named dusty road. Swimming in acres of cheap space, buildings in this town huddle together, designed for the feet of horses or people, not eighteen wheels at once. The factory’s awfulness is mostly due to the semi trucks. It ate the raspberry bushes to ease their travel; it ate the ancient chestnut trees for the same reason. A barn that had seen centuries, an orchard planted in my father’s childhood, devoured and paved. We small cousins throw rotting apples and our most vicious playground curses at its ugliness. This angers and embarrasses the adults. They grasp for dignity while the white cinderblocks nibble at our land. Please don’t take the house.
I keep walking. The road hides me in clouds of brown when my feet scrape. It can’t hide the recently decapitated chicken on the edge of the cornfield, killed for sport by a well-fed dog. A man is fly-fishing in the shallow spring fed crick. Only an auslander would call it a creek. I see his pickup first, catch a glimpse of him casting, hip high rubber waders though the water is not to his knees, and wonder if he will eat what he reels in. I suspect he, like most people here, doesn’t care to know about the water.
I walk past him. The fields this far back have given up trying to yield corn; they are content to nourish riots of blue chicory. Generations ago, maybe also more recently, this tired purple soil was prodded into raising grains, though its richness has been washing towards the Chesapeake for millennia. They say this range was the tallest in the world once.
Old Spain, Back or not, is the name of the mountain, too. The road turns up and I enter its shade. The day after Thanksgiving, we poach Christmas trees here, malnourished college students, prodigal sons and their new babies, caucasian debris all. Our carols and laugher drown out the siblings’ shame. I alone among cousins keep this memory; the others are too young. Even my brother, only two years my junior, does not know his earliest holiday cheer was illicit.
The spring predictably inspires thirst when I reach it; water gurgling cheerfully from between Thomas Kincaid's moss-covered stones and perfect ferns. A small tin mug sits on one of the idyllic rocks, secured to another rock with a delicate chain. My great grandmothers house, the original on the property I’ve walked from, had a mug like this attached to a spring outside the front door. Her oldest grandson’s wife, my mother, finally took that mug away because she couldn’t get us to stop drinking what flowed so temptingly from the ground. The water is sweet because mercury is tasteless.
I turn and walk back the way I came, stopping at the edge of woods and field. It is late in the season for strawberries, there may not be any left. I drop to my hands and knees, search for hot rubies among triplet leaves. There is only one, tiny as they all are. Inside my mouth, my tongue memorizes the roughness and diamond shape, sucking a soft film of dust from delicate skin, so little sweetness draws through. I savor this prelude until I can stand it no longer, then press the berry reverently against the roof of my mouth. It does not disappoint, they never do. Sunshine and hope drip to the back of my throat with the rich pectin. I slacken my jaw, allow my teeth their pleasure, gradually. The seeds resist just enough, the texture brings ecstasy, more sugar bleeds from the pulp. One small involuntary moan escapes as I swallow.
My eyes open.
It is over.
