The comfort of ritual. A circular incision. Twisting the halves out and away, removing each pit with a swift thwack of blade. Scraping avocado, unripe, impossibly green into the Pyrex bowl you bought me for the birthday I never thought I’d live to see. Drag of fork, swimming everything smooth.
Half the jalapeno and double the lime. Cutting them lengthwise, like you taught me, to maximize the juice and minimize the mess left on my hands. You know how I get about my hands.
Shrugging garlic out of its papery jacket with thumbs and forefingers. Mincing it fine, and finer. Half a sweet white onion, because you’re not crazy about red, especially raw. Remembering how my mother used to dice onions while she cried and I was never sure about the cause/effect of the whole situation.
Sunlight through the kitchen window glitzing the puddled seeds and messy drool of one vine-ripened tomato. Half a red bell pepper. The trick is the surprise crunch. A contrast of textures. Don’t you know, a mouth can only handle so much soft?
Salt and pepper to taste. A pinch of hot chili powder, stirring everything together until even I have to admit it’s enough. It’s done.
There’s nothing more to do.
-b
No comments:
Post a Comment