My mother the art critic -- everything from the layout of a dish, to the presentation, to the smell and finally the taste, nothing escapes her. Her quick tongue is always ready to question the tasteful, bribe the unwilling, dilute the conscious and, of course, praise the unnoticed. Introducing my mother the art critic.
My mother the engineer. With each conscious bite, she digests the formula for each dish. From the sauce to the filling, nothing is spared from her analytical tongue. Way before the aftertaste of each cullinary load fades, my mother is already hard at work at creating a counter-recipie. Within minutes, her cullinary laboratory delivers a quick and satisfying conclusion: "We could have had this at home." With engineered conviction, her stare would have convinced us that this were true, had it not been for the lack of time due to our busy schedules. Surely, we wouldn't dare question the competence of our resident specialist.
My mother the actor. She likes ice-cream, and we know it. She used to make mooncakes, and she knows it. But she claims not to like ice-cream mooncakes. Perhaps it's the theory that a cook should never taste the things he creates. Perhaps its her guilty conscience warning her of that well-hidden tummy. Her convicted refusal of the fourth piece of mooncake makes it really hard to tell...
My father the soldier. His rehearsed routined and precise timing is hard to replicate. His convicted, purposeful steps are hard to follow. His firm tenderness with my mom is hard to ignore. His eyes have a gentle smile that is hard to notice. His words of congratulations and thanks are polished and issued with militaristic assurance. My father, the soldier; walk on.
My father the scholar. His glasses hang from his nose-bridge like an inquisitor's tool as he scans the papers for information. You can almost hear his thoughts buzz through his skull as his eyes dart across the pages, ignoring the noise, the waiter and the music of the restaurant. His dedication to devouring information is boundless, I'm sure, because he studies the menu with an unequalled intensity. My father -- always focused, always purposeful.
My father the teacher. They say that a teacher teaches by example, and students tend to take after their teachers. I took a look at him and thought about myself, it seems like we both took turns at teaching each other things. My only lesson being conditional love: "I love you, dad, that's why it hurts to much when I can't even talk to you on something like this." His lessons ranged a great many things, too many to state here, but all bearing a common theme: how to be a man and all precious.
Each time my family gets together, it's like a high-society gathering -- we speak our own exclusive colourful language and communicate through our elite culture. My mother, the multi-talented bohemian plays the pipe and fills our dining table with her melodies while my father occasionally exhibits his throaty bass. My brother, the rebel, usually plays the saxophone though he does swtich between instruments rather quickly and toots a different tune according to the background. Me? I'm the flutist: tittering away in my corner with my chirping laughter and my high-pitched smile. I guess my parents brought me up well, because I have found their elitist views of many issues fitting and unparalleled. Great job, team.
Two birthdays were sounded off at Swensens while we were dining, cued by the pre-programed birthday tracks playing on the intercom. Horray... our little outing stradles both our parents' birthdays. Anyway, it's meaningless, this musical amusement. What could compare to the brilliance of our exclusive intercourse? Artistic and ambiguous though it might be at times, but still priceless.
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I missed Autumn today
As I stared into this black canvas
And contemplated the ways
That I could paint your essence
And somehow make you stay.
The storkes would need to be
Gentle and mellow in colour
Yet smooth to dance free
To the warmth of Fall's flavour
And no-one would ever know
The mysteries of your ways
The gentle seeds you sow
And the nights you turn into days
I missed Autumn today.
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I got a song in my mail today. It was unexpected. I feel like replying it with my interpretation. A rhyme, perhaps. But will it flow?
I received an sms today. It too, was unexpected. Especially one of such nature, that described me as a puzzling phenomenon, somewhat between a mist, a psychological case study, a puzzle and an engima. Frankly, I don't even know what that makes me. Confused, yeah, pretty much.
Whatever makes you happy, I guess. I'm just me, as far as I'm concerned. And that probably means that I'm more than words can describe. All because I chose to be.
How can you fix the mist? What home does the wind have? It has but a destination.
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My brother is like lemon peel. No not his skin, silly. Well, but he does have rather endearing freckles though.
He is bittersweet. And he's ben going round in circles lately. Actually, he seems to have been coiled up like a lemon peel for some time now... Always going round and round in circles around the same axis. That seems to be the way things are going for him these days -- it's usually a reactive core he hides behind those reactor walls. And good technicians can be so hard to come by these days. To make matters worse, each usually brings with her a different style of managing this plant.
Who could read these meters? Who could control this core? Who could stop a fallout? Who could preserve its energetic nature? Who could understand the physics of his atomic core?
He knows. I'm sure of it. But the contract with the technicains are always the trickiest to handle...
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I don't think there is a recipie for this cocktail. Not when the bartender keeps modifying the ones he has. Perhaps you could say that they all taste somewhat the same... But there are always the subtle differences. I'm sure you'll notice.
Speaking of cocktails. Just when I thought I had tasted it all... A new one finds its way onto the menu. Ah, the heady indulgence of passion.
JKLM
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