Thursday, June 4, 2009
Any one who arrives at my desert tent is always waved in with a welcome and well fed.
A tempting buffet of fruits and nuts and spices lay openly about, available to all who may feel the hunger from their journey. Bowls and platters and jars remain willing and waiting for the taking with suggestions of more to follow.
Guests are invited to stay until they are fat and full and fall into snores, only to wake up aroused, yearning for...another round of flavors, and textures and more.
There is a time however, when I suspect all the eyes of the harem are distracted...
I sneak a bite.
I never share.
I would not think to pull out a plate.
I hover instead over the sink.
Over ripe peaches dipped in a hand full of Sumac, this is my private treat.
Sandy texture atop my fresh flesh and juice that tap dance on my tongue.
... it is the cinnamon on my breakfast toast.
... the salt rim to my virgin Margarita.
...the Nori flakes on my hot bowl of popcorn.
A simple pleasure I reveal... virtually,
so that you too may covet it for your private muse.
In exchange I request only that you shimmy over and offer up a similar,
soul-searching-source of satiable inspiration.
What secret-something-snack do you keep all to your Self and no one else?