|Sunny Days in Heaven
Spiritual/Political/Philosophical Blog on the Nature of Truth and Falsehood and Heaven
Friday, April 15, 2005 Martha Stewart missed lemons
When I was a young man I loved oranges more than any other food. I would chill one in the fridge and then carefully peel it, inhaling the sweet orange oil that sprang from the skin when pressed in pulling it off the fruit. Then devour the sections like a libertine with a courtesan.
The color orange is named after the orange, and it is very beautiful indeed, and the smell shouts the color - ORANGE!
In fact, I wrote a comedy play in blank verse in which a rogue of a character speaks a soliloquy of seduction which begins -
"I would love you like I love an orange.
Sweetly redolent is the scent on my senses."
He then proceeds to list a series of double entendres describing how he smells, peels, and eats an orange and, of course, seduces the girl because we all know how much young women respond to comparisons of themselves with fruit lusciously described. (Okay, then look at Shakespeare's Richard III and tell me the scene with Lady Anne makes any sense. It's called poetic license!)
I reveled in the sensual pleasure of an orange as an acme of joy, yet today, I find that lemons are the most irresistable fruit in their smell. In cooking, in a drink (though lime is close), as zest -- lemons are incredibly wonderful.
I second Martha's misery in not having fresh lemons available to her in prison. There is nothing like a lemon.
The light in Crete shines bright as lemons. Air
seems slightly sour: dust, salt, sweat, and heat.
Parched soil stunts the olive trees. Light glares
in hazy skies. The sea with turquoise shores
seems tame with ancient use. A plowed blue field
of gentle furrows free of rocks and bones.
It's summer. Rain has business elsewhere. Heat
has set a table on the land, and all
the dogs are somnolent. The land is still,
dry and vacant. posted by Mark Butterworth | 10:08 PM |