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the saddest blog that ever was
6.02.2004:
he was what you would call giddy-with-excitement when the pappardelle unfurled out of the machine ribbon by ribbon from the cool, smoothly floured sheets he spent all afternoon rolling under a pin. they were so fragrant and delicious, prepared simply with creme fraiche, a dousing of extra virgin olive oil, a few grinds on the peppermill, oh and maybe pecorino if we'd felt like it. and the salads with their oblong chunks of ham and tuna, shiny greek olives tossed in whole, and the best: sliced quarters of eggs bouncing up and down trying to keep the crumbly yolk inside. he preferred it golden yellow-runny and gooey, i did not, liking the dull ochre of cookedness instead. those feasts were laid out with as much precision as a military parade, and as much masculine pride, under the barrel-vaulted arches of those churches first built when dry masonry was finally being replaced by the compressive strength of the voussoir system. i don't know why i ever decided to choose mies van der rohe and the farnsworth house over the temple of aphaia at aegina, or traded the monotype and kettle stitch knot for agnes martin. but i love agnes martin. i guess that's enough.
when the boy punched the safety pin through (my) his (favorite) earlobe i thought the roof was going to cave it with all the tension being held under our breaths waiting to be released. i knew how he felt, having safety pinned my finger to my hand before in an attempt to circumnavigate the tricky terrain between the soft vulnerable skin of the palm and the calloused uncaring tip of my index. my grasp has gotten looser since then, but i can still curl my fists and pack a hell of a punch.
Blog // 1:21 AM
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