She pinched off a piece of the tiny banana between the tips of her fingers and thumb. Sun-ripened and sugary-sweet, it was harvested earlier that morning from one of the many banana plants in her sprawling, verdant, over-planted garden. She mashed it meticulously, breaking up large chunks so there would be no choking hazard. Then she grabbed the ‘baby’, pried open his mouth, and shoved banana inside, scraping her fingers along his teeth to get every last scrap. She tilted his chin up and massaged his throat–there would be no spitting out of pre-triturated banana, no rejection of her love.Continue reading “Silky Sidney”
“Can I take a photo of him?” the woman asks.
Wafer thin slices of potato dive from the mandolin, cascading into the hot oil with a raucous sizzle. My father brushes past my left shoulder. I’ve learned not to look, not to ricochet my head around searching for signs of him. He’s not there.
CN: this essay mentions coping strategies subsequent to adverse events in childhood (there are no details of the events themselves)
When I was eight, A Very Bad Thing happened.
There’s a much misunderstood but oft quoted Hindu/Buddhist tenet that life is suffering.
I hadn’t intended to post recipes on this site, but there have been so many requests for this recipe based on the photographs, that I’m deviating from the path.
It stood rustling its tiny red berries and pea-green leaves in the northwestern corner of our yard. The Japanese Pepper was my tree.
I hate Jack and the Beanstalk.