Snippet: The Frittata

Cold frittata for lunch. Good God thank You for That. It went from sitting in the blast of air from the european fridge in american tupperwear to the blue lid being screwed off and rounded ‘Cereal Killer’ spoon plunging inside. My hunger has made this thing Whole. Thank God it was declined by the husband on his way out the door. Thank God for it giving reason to my lunch time, defining my hour. My hunger has turned this visceral. IKEA couch, three days built, smelling freshly of plywood and that familiar scent of Store, already christened with breast milk and a hardened puddle of cow milk tipped from of a bowl of brownies, white dog hairs multiplying through the weave of its gray fibers before my very eyes…God, is this frittata good. I have a new corner, I think, sitting cross legged in the “L” of firm cushions, spilling crumbs of egg down the pointy snout of a puppy adopted from these streets. I never thought of eating cold egg before. But my god, the tomatoes! I never knew they could taste this way. Tomatoes with flavor? With their own soul? Red and warm and vapoury, spreading like thin liquid red would taste in a lava scene of a water colour across my tongue. Picked from the garden dug and planted months ago, saved despite their questionable color and shapes and spots. Wasted bits of wreckage in the sun, almost annihilated by projected insecurities. First produce of the season. First garden harvest ever. These tomatoes have been given wondrous purpose, so close to becoming unfulfilled! And Good GOD, the corn?! So moist, so innocent, so greenish yellow!…Ready to be salvaged from its browning plants, tiny, undeveloped babies, telling me to take a chance. After all that watering, after all that hovering in the shady dusk after crawling out of my cool cave while the hot Spanish sun baked them all to crisps… you babies are delivered to your purpose, chopped up and thrown into the curdling yellow liquid at the bottom of my 220 volt slow cooker only just the Freaking HOT afternoon before. I spoon my cold, flavour filled lunch into my mouth. I consume every particle. I devour every taste, scent, texture, and memory, feeling tired eyes begin to un-swell, feeling tracks of hardened tears disintegrating from my face. Just when I thought Spain had forsaken me, you meet me halfway. You say, at least you know how to enjoy a frittata. It’s not even 2 o’clock, but, hey, you’re still an American after all

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