Dear friends, it’s not you, it’s me. I know, I know, you’ve all heard it before, from rakish men and coldhearted women, but this time, babies, it’s for real. It’s not you, it’s me.
I have concluded that there is an existentialism virus wending its way around the world as we speak, and it is every bit as virulent as the flu, with none of the flu’s meager benefits such as getting to stay home from work and eat soup while watching Food Network and reading Get Fuzzy. It is like the Insomnia Plague in One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and, like the Insomnia Plague, is more fun in the abstract than the concrete, more fun to read about than to live through.
I have no doubt that this is a fast-moving virus, and within days I’ll be ready to post some 10,000-word monograph on toast or luncheonettes or some such nonsense, but for now, I have been hit hard and laid low. (Lest I carry the metaphor too far, I will admit that I have been to my mental health professional—because in New York City it’s practically the law, you have to have a mental health professional before you’re allowed to put down a security deposit on an apartment or buy an unlimited-use MetroCard – and said mental health professional has suggested that I may have been a little more shocked by Monday morning’s near-collision with the taxi than I had thought.) Whatever the cause, it is an odd, odd piece of real estate inside my skull this week. It is as though I were looking through my own eyes, but from a distance of about 300 feet. I don’t know who is piloting the controls, whose fingers are typing this out, whose eyes trawl blankly over my research material (confidential to aethele: I found an English translation of the Aldrovandi book we were looking for!), whose brain and heart were once filled with dreams of baking, of waking up at 4 and going to bed 20 hours later and working my heart out in the intervening hours, all for the love of something to call my own, because, dearies, it sure doesn’t feel like my fingers, my eyes, my brain or my heart.
Fortunately, I know better than that. It is my fingers, my eyes, my brain and my heart. I see a light in the distance, I hear a warm happy chorus of voices, a chorus of dear friends, and they’re all saying there you are! Would you like some soup? Why, sure. Thank you. Would you like to join me in a little dessert?
Mel e Motto
Ingredients:
Ricotta or farmer cheese, the fresher, the better
Honey, your choice (Any honey is good; I like the strongly flavored ones like chestnut or buckwheat. If you can find leathertree honey from Tasmania, snap it up in quantity, as the perfume and flavor are like the best kiss you’ve ever had.)
Nuts, your choice (Almonds are good; so are hazelnuts. I like them toasted, but if you prefer raw, it will still taste fine in this.)
Directions:
1. Slice yourself a piece of ricotta (or scoop it, if you bought it in a tub).
2. Drizzle generously with honey.
3. Strew nuts over top.
4. Eat, accompanied by either a nice dessert wine like tardio or banyuls, or a cup of strong black coffee.