Melt

I was here today morning. I had to take a friend with her mother along. I didnt want to go in, I hesistated, dilly-dallied, waited.. maybe it wont be as good, I thought. Maybe all I’ll get there are the bitter 90% ones that I can eat once – but have to have a dialogue in my head about how good it is for my health to actually keep eating it.

She opened the door. An old wooden frame with clean glass pane. From within came a warm, tempting zephyr of simmering coacoa. My frontal cortex shut itself down and in I went.

A tiny corridor, with chocolates on display, where ever I turned. Slabs, crumbles, tiny bricks, smooth balls, dusted with coacoa powder, glazed with sticky caramel; all in – nougat, amandes, caramel croquant, noir, vanille, blanc avec le fruits rouge and the eternal classic – lait.

No, I told myself. Ive spent a lot today. Maybe next time, maybe next weekend. I should deserve such things.

I was offered help – did I want to buy something? I mumbled an excuse, said I was waiting for my friend to finish.

The more I stood in that corner, the more overpowering the scent became. My head felt like a warzone. I had too many loud voices in my head, each vying for attention.

Thats it!

Excusez-moi? Si vous êtes libre, je aimerais bien prendre quelques petite morceaux…
  • White with red fruits
  • Classic milk
  • Crunchy caramel
  • Cayenne Pepper
  • Fleurs de Sel (Flowers of salt)

I grudgingly shared the white with the friends, consoling myself that white chocolate isnt chocolate at all. Folded everything else and stuffed the packet deep into my bag.

I ran back home, carefully opened the waxed paper packet, peeled the ‘Blondel’ sticker, stuck my nose in it and took a deep life-giving breath.

Gingerly I opened the individually packed tiny thin slabs and took a tiny bite and let it sit on my tongue…

Test number 1.

Normal chocolate -> melting -> liquefying ->… mmmm…. -> !! what the!! ->… chilli!!! .-> cayenne pepper… -> *loud moan* -> flopped back on my futon with my eyes closed….. -> let the rest make its way down my throat along with copious amounts of wetness..

Test number 2.

Normal chocolate.. -> slightly darker that I like it -> inching its way to the sides of my tongue -> *HOLY CRAP!* moment -> tiny granules of salt sitting on my tastebuds -> melting like firefly flickers only to meld with the normal dark chocolate -> Oh…. my….*breath escalating* -> Silently having an epicurian orgasm…

Amen.

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My red shoulder bag  – check

My trusty camera in the ‘other’ shoulder bag – check

Sunglasses – check

.. and off we go!

With my current ear worm on my ipod and my eyelids closing and opening in time to the drugged beat, and a warm-hot sun on my sundress clad back, saturdays cannot get better.

Walking down from the cathedral, as I wind my way into cobblestone streets – a wave of riotous colours hits my retina. Peaches, bananas, apples – brilliant reds and greens, basket of neatly arranged starwberries, the wet, verde of lettuce leaves – a dozen varieties of them; poky pink-tipped asparaguses tied up in bundles; tiny, yellow potatoes and fiery red tomatoes on a stalk; royal juicy purple onions and my favourite – broccoli so green and fresh that you can hear them call out to you – from across the street.

I try, I really do. I take my camera with me every saturday, with hopes of capturing some colour, an iota of life.

A smiling paysan with crinkly eyes, a laughing madame with flowers in her hair and stalks of violet irises in her hands, a tiny toddler seriously examining her own fingers – sticky with toffee..  red balloons bouyed by the slight gust of wind at the town square; a small crowd of families and cybershot-toting tourists waiting for the enormous house-sized cuckoo clock to strike the hour; kids selling home-made cakes and cookies to fund their summer trips; similing locals walking with pamphlets urging you to “Sauver Lavaux” or “Pensez aux enfants en Somalie” or even “Utilise le transport locale” !

Up and down the steep streets I walk, hoping for a quiet corner somewhere, where I can take my camera out and try to think about framing a shot – it proves close to impossible. I have clutched the camera body through my bag, many times, only to losen the grip and walk on, into the milling crowd – to simply soak in the summer milieu.

After going through the motions and armed with an overflowing bag of vegetables on one hand and a bouquet of lillies and chinese roses on the other, I fight the urge to take the metro back home and walk back uphill through the same winding streets.

Its during times like these that I feel truly lucky to be human.

There isnt a higher joy than earning your share of fresh vegetables every week 🙂

Un anno

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Its been a year already!

*shuffles to find my old sheaffers black ink pen*

Things learnt in the year 2008 –

1. There is such a thing as too much alcohol. Hangover is a very real consequence of a night-full of fun.

2. Pilates is a surprisingly good workout, sans the usual huffing-puffing and perspiration

3. Being hestitant gets you nowhere. It can also be misinterpreted as indecision, which is pretty immature. (so is hesitation.. to begin with…)

4. A mug of steaming soup and slices of rustic bread make for a great dinner. (Never knew my tummy could fill up so fast with so little)

5. One needs to keep their eyes open to notice everyday phenomena. Its usually where the elusive bird of singular discoveries lurks.

6. A new language can only be learnt when it is spoken as much and as frequently as possible, with as many random strangers are possible! (Speaking bad ungrammatical french, or rather trying to speak french than english, has opened more doors for me than a sweet smile!)

7. It takes a split second to judge someone – so do some nifty boot-exchanging and walk in your new heels before you are swift to bring down the gavel.

8. It also takes just a split second (or even just an unconscious action or lack of it) for a bond to break. No matter how long it took and how beautifully it flowered, it is never too difficult to snap the bare threads on an already strained camaraderie.

9. It isnt a crime to preen! To look presentable and proper, is the most basic of  social skills. A wardrobe overall is exactly what was needed – and what I got myself.

10. Home isnt a set of people – it isnt even a place. Its a set of circumstances that happened at a certain place and time. All we do, is try to go back to that point in space and time, when things were perfect for us; when we felt our best, when everything was alright with the world – when we were “at home”.

The end of summer is depressing.

The days get shorter, leaves get less green, water gets colder….

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Sometimes, it just feels like someone is pulling the rug from underneath your feet..

Not with a fast whip, but so imperceptibly slowly, that you dont feel it at all.

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I cant seem to stand fools gladly these days. Ofcourse, “fools”, judged to be so by my own standards and “stand” = can’t wait to run out on them.

Is this what is called being snooty? high-handed? maybe difficult?

Or solitary, a loner, a recluse.. a misanthrope…

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My earworm – the haunting ‘Inertia Creeps’ by Massive Attack.

Should I be worried?

Pictures with/of/for People

If one would look at all the pictures I took during my trip to Perigord, Les Ezyies and such, a stark lack of human forms would be apparent.

I consciously avoid people pictures. Mostly because I hate being in front of the lens, and thus, wouldnt want to subject anyone else to that caliber of torture.

Inanimate objects are a safer alternative, for an abysmally amateur “picture-taking-person” like me.

But occasionally, in times of weakness … it feels like Im waiting forever, for someone to come and take a picture of me. My soul and form laid bare for everyone to see and having no regrets, of how it turned out.

Rain

The rain here is a different rain.

As I see it every morning.. out my window.. first thing I wake up to..running down the length of my window pane …rivulets on the paved roads..between the nooks and crannies in the cobblestoned streets..crystal droplets on impossibly green blades of grass…slipping down surfaces and washing away non-existent dust and dirt… cold..incessant..tiny droplets.. pummeling you.. seeking to enter any tiny gap in any rain-resistant gear possible…people shield against it.. deny it.. stay away from it.. abhor it.

The rain back home.. has character.

Warm water.. big droplets.. cascading down houses, walls, roofs, dirty gnarled trees, washing days of caked mud and dirt, sopping up the pollution like a humongous sponge in the air, soaking tired and weary office goers…providing much needed eye-candy for men as sari pallus and dupattas stick to female forms, bringing another reason for kids on the street to come out and jump puddles, giving more opportunities for boys to roll in the mud and grass – all in the name of football, moistening dry cracked earth – like the licking of dry lips, filling reservoirs, lakes and canals… awakening new life.

How is miss the aroma of Geosmin.