Somewhere the hens who laid the eggs whose yolks became custard at our stove are clucking around in free range happiness, considering their next morsel. Farther away, the wind is blowing through the coffee plants, a thunderstorm approaching over the mountains to shake and rattle every bean on the plantation when it rolls through. The farmer wipes his brow with a bandana, re-dons his hat, talks to someone over his shoulder. His neighbor meanwhile prepares another load of cocoa for the roaster, to be winnowed and fanned, made into cakes and ground, a fine powder in a plastic yellow box in the pantry, that graced not the espresso machine but the double boiler. Cows in the pasture low for their calves to come and sip the sweet cream that their dairy sisters donate at the parlor, to be refined and pasteurized, packaged and easily milked from the supermarket cabinet. On the west coast, grapes are ripening, to be picked under the perfect sun, fermented, and bottled into the wine that walloped me into the morning after decision to sit at my kitchen table and indulge in a chocolate affogato on a Friday before noon.
A prose poem based on a true story. Happy weekend, y’all! Thanks for reading.