Tasting Notes

Tasting Notes
She was reading the tasting notes on a turmeric jar – melted butter, jasmine, honey.
She gazed at the Brown Betty teapot on the shelf and felt how lucky she was to live this life, grateful to be like the spice and the teapot: perfectly crafted and fragrant.

With a tilt of the head, as if someone were watching and she had an audience of more than spice jars, she stroked the label of the Black Urfa Chili and read its notes — raisins, espresso, summer night. Great in stews, tomato sauces, salad dressings, chocolate desserts, or sprinkled over fluffy scrambled eggs. Do not add to eggs that are insufficiently fluffy, as it will not taste the same, even though it’s from Urfa, Turkey, where it has been grown for centuries. The rich, malty flavor with a lingering burn will not work on flat, pedestrian eggs.

She unscrewed the lid and inhaled.

“Grateful,” she murmured to no one but the attentive geraniums in their terracotta pots, and turned toward the light slanting through the cedar shutters.

“Dear friends,” she said, “We will overcome. We will persist.”

She sat down at her laptop to revise plans for the next month’s posts.

Monday: Check records for upcoming death anniversaries. Find connection. Find new ways to describe my grief. No more than one per week to avoid seeming maudlin.
Tuesday: Photograph the Bialetti Moka pot and tell its story — after the hurricane, or perhaps after Spoleto. Whichever reads better.
Wednesday: Go through emails for any recent publications. Say something about the cover art. Remember to be inclusive. Ideally someone with whom I have a photo from a reading.
Thursday: Drive to the next village “spontaneously” after morning coffee. Drop into the bookstore anonymously. Check whether they’re still carrying my book. Always such a thrill. I never get tired of it. Name the owner, praise the window display.
Friday: Post about last night’s dinner with dear friends just back from Barcelona, where they borrowed Pablo’s apartment and enjoyed the view from his terrace. Mention the brown butter sea scallops with grilled asparagus. (They always serve them. Edit if not.) Serving-platter photo
Saturday: Gallery hopping, a dry martini on the Soho sidewalk. It’s not Paris—but I love New York. Photo a rusted fire hydrant or stoop steps and the two glasses.
Sunday: Show concern about democracy. Pair it with an adorable dog photo.
Monday: Express gratitude for dear friends who have written books—or who might mention mine.
Tuesday: Discover a poem that connects to the state of the nation. 
Wednesday: Remember Taos. Or possibly Nova Scotia.
Thursday: Find an old diary or family photo — nostalgic but not sentimental. Don’t use that one.
Friday: Check the weather and find the right poem. Connect it with the time we met at the opening.
Saturday: Name a daily chore. Give it significance. Maybe the laundry. Or have an insight while emptying the dishwasher.

She paused, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. She needed something sharper for the final week of the quarter. Something with bite.

She reached for another jar, unscrewing the lid of the vine-ripened cardamom pods from Guatemala. She inhaled the scent of single-estate regenerative forests and let the marketing copy roll through her mind like a script. Sweet and tart, reminiscent of summer fruits, fresh herbs, and cut grass. Yes, she could tie that to a post about environmental anxiety on Tuesday.

Next was the smoked chili. Campfire. Roasted Tomato. Hot & Sweet. She would pair that with a poignant childhood memory or the photo of the rusted Soho fire hydrant. Think contrast! Think juxtaposition!

A breath. A sigh.

She reached for the final jar: Pemba cloves, hand-picked in the Zanzibar Archipelago, harvested at the last possible moment before flowering to ensure the most mature flavor.

She looked at her reflection in the dark glass of her laptop screen. “Yes,” she murmured. “Yes.”

A rich, tingling warmth. A numbing menthol buzz. Just enough lingering burn and just enough fluff. For the eggs.

A sigh.

And she settled to the work.