Here’s some Food Writing:
Those apples sat on my desk, bags half-opened, for three hours this afternoon. By the time it was time to leave for the day, I thought I would go out of my mind with desire. Oh, the way these apples smell. The Black Twigs are tart and bright, and smell of the cider they could eventually be pressed into. The Cortlands are sweet, and smell vaguely of leaves and blossoms. The Winesaps, forever and always my favorites, they smell of earth, wine, cold cellars, lying on wet grass, mystery. I can’t stop myself. I pull out one of the more oversized of the Winesaps, almost the size of a Red Delicious, large for this varietal. It snaps, then gives, against my front teeth. The flesh is a little softer than it is at the height of season, but it still provides plenty of the resistance that makes apples so satisfying to eat out of hand. The juice is both tart and sweet, apple wine, and there is plenty of it. It is tart and zippy, smooth and piercing, cidery, winy, round and gorgeous, here baby, there mama, everywhere daddy daddy. How could anyone consider this too straightforward and sincere to be a real pleasure?Good Gawd. If you can read this without immediately developing an intense Apple Jones, then your imagination or sense memory is shriveled up, missing, presumed dead.
This is my friend the Bakerina. Her writing is the seasoning on a fine dish...plus the whole honkin’ dish itself. If you ever want to see how a passion for Truth, Beauty, and Flavor is properly translated into the written word, go thou and visit.