What shall I tell you about? I shall tell you about the instants. I exceed my limits and only then do I exist and then in a feverish way. I’m very feverish… will I ever be able to stop living? God help me, I die so much. I follow the tortuous path of roots and breaking through the earth, for passion is my talent, in the burning of a dry tree I twist in the flames. To the duration of my existence I give a hidden meaning which surpasses me. I’m a concomitant being: I unite myself past, present, and future time, the time that throbs in the tick-tick of clocks.” – Clarice Lispector,
There isn’t a week that goes by where I don’t make some rendition of a frangipane tart. My freezer is full of left-over pastry dough and surpluses of streusel that always end up in tart form. It’s become a new kind of ritual. And one, that for me, signifies the strength of the season. There’s thinly sliced pears, quince, and apples for the cool slowing’s of Winter and Fall. And blistering over-ripe stone fruits and berries for the warming creep of Spring and Summer. And this Raspberry Almond Streusel Tart is among my current seasonal favourite.
“I will touch a hundred flowers and not pick one.” – Edna St. Vincent Millay, an excerpt from ‘Afternoon on a Hill’
An end to ardour. When the dying death of last light was beautiful and all things fade like the sun. The roses are in their swollen bloom, the color of dusk. There’s a heat to it. A heat that comes with the end of things. I pluck a rose and feel it. Feel the bloom, know the bloom, I am the bloom. And then it withers and I feel that too. The rose and I know much of withering. For I withered once, once in December. I’ve always thought there are certain blossoming’s that wild things must know, just as there are certain burnings the body must endure. How flowers understand their fated end. The end that comes from being plucked, loved, and cherished. I wonder how true that is for us too. But blossoming, blossoming is the sole thing for which we were built.
“I meet you. I remember you. Who are you? You’re destroying me. You’re good for me. How could I know this city was tailor-made for love? How could I know you fit my body like a glove? I like you. How unlikely. I like you. How slow all of a sudden. How sweet. You cannot know. You’re destroying me. You’re good for me. You’re destroying me. You’re good for me. I have time. Please, devour me. Deform me to the point of ugliness. Why not you? Why not you in this city and in this night, so like other cities and other nights you can hardly tell the difference? I beg of you.” – Marguerite Duras, from Hiroshima Mon Amour.
“Today is made of yesterday, each time I steal toward rites I do not know, waiting for the lost ingredient, as if salt or money or even lust would keep us calm and prove us whole at last.” – Anne Sexton, from ‘The Lost Ingredient.’
Late in the afternoon, dreaming. There’s warmth on everything. Yesterday I made this cheesecake. I’ve made it again and again over the course of the week. Part because I craved it and part because I came home to place of dessert tables and long Wintered dinners that turn into never-ending evenings. And then I think about this cheesecake and become light-headed again. Hungering sets in. Afternoon shadows devour. It’s all over.
“Strengthened by the goodness of winter fruit, I brought the fire into the house. The civilization of storms dripped from the overhanging tiles. I’ll now be free to detest tradition, to dream of the frost of those that passed on the scarcely captious pathways. But to whom will I entrust my unborn children? Solitude was without its spaces; the white flame sank and its warmth only offered an expiring gesture.”- René Char, from End of Solemnities.