Whenever I’m with you I feel like I am home again. I will always love you. The old song, The Cure, played by Chappy, a fat guy around my own age and I am in a too tight, red dream t-shirt, no bra after washing the dog, cutting the fruits, chopping the nuts, using only the best ingredients in my very expensive fruitcakes.
How many years now have I attempted to find the perfect recipe, for both us in love and the Christmas cakes? This one is recommended by the New York Times, a recipe calling for kosher salt and pistachio’s.
Yesterday, I got the farm eggs from Bill, he shrugged his large, eighty-year-old shoulders when I pulled up, meaning I’m fresh out and I had had the thought that he might be after a sunny weekend and so little light, 4:30 dark of our north-coast hamlet. But upon mention of baking the cakes he turned for the house, took the dozen he had in his own fridge and gave them to me, told me he didn’t tell his wife, that he’d already boiled up eight or so and eaten half of them up already.
The kitchen is spilling over with fresh sun, though the angle is already low by noon. I follow my thoughts through the years, how Bill at eighty now seems young, the way in which I’ve stood so many times at this cutting-board preparing love for my family, for the neighbors, for the birthday parties and the foil-wrapped Christmas plates I’ll have the kids deliver, Susan, Dan & Heather, The Devil worshipper's and Roger and his shrimp crew and of course the ones for you too.
Whatever words I say, I will always love you.
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