Molasses

I found a jar of molasses on sale at the store tonight as I wandered about with my basket half full and my mind half empty of ideas for dinner. I love dark, robust black-strap molasses. Especially on cornbread. Some people use honey, butter, jam, whatever, just not me. My Dad always taught us to save our square of cornbread until we had finished the rest of our meal, usually Mom's fabulous chili and salad. And then he showed us how to lay it out in two perfect half slabs in the middle of the round dinner plate, dab on a smear of soft butter, and drizzle the thick, dark, rich syrup over it until it began to sink into the spongy square and puddle on the plate. I fondly recall the gooey forkfuls of contrasting textures and tastes. The slight crunch and blandness of the bread, the pungent, spicy almost dangerous tang of that mysterious liquid. It was always such a satisfying end to a delicious meal. Memory upon memory raised to greet me and I realized I was still standing in the middle of the baking isle holding this hefty jar of precious nectar. I love the jars, either green or yellow labels depending on variety. Robust or black-strap. I love them both equally, one's just a tad more complex and mysterious than the other. So I tossed it casually into my basket and bought it even though we already had part of a jar at home. Impulsive? Perhaps so. But oddly satisfying nonetheless. The jar at home was larger, mostly empty I reasoned, plastic and with a screw top that never stuck. I hate jars that stick and hurt my hands to open them. When I got home I opened the new jar and poured its contents into the one I already had, the jar that pleased my hands. It's a quirk of mine... an odd one I know. But I have to have things organized and in order. Two partial jars of anything... and that's what would have happened eventually when I could no longer resist the pull and the whisper of the new jar, would drive me insane. So when it was full and the new one empty, I went to screw the lid on the empty and toss it in the trash. The smell... that wonderful, spicy, rich and deep smell that I love assaulted my senses. And that's when it hit me. You remind me of molasses. After all these years... who knew?

50 words - Unsex

"So long." I lamented the length of time it's been since I've made love, "We're talking years now... plural." Disgust. Anger. Emotions long denied come flooding forth. "Self love, that's what it's all about." Laughter. A blend of feminine and masculine. "Who are you trying to convince... me or yourself?"

Hit Upon

Eastbound on the title street of my city, in rush hour traffic, sitting oddly still at a green light at the corner of 56th Ave, enjoying a catchy tune on the radio and the warmth of the early fall sun, on my cell catching up the days events with my bff, I look to my left and see a small silver car. It's westbound, but the streets in the midst of downtown are narrow and as we are both occupying the inside lane, it's occupant and I are but arms length apart. We could indeed reach out and touch one another, and I do believe that is his intention. The driver, obviously is male, and cute too. I recall a polo shirt, a glimpse of denim, close cropped blond hair, a slim face, bright white smile and blue eyes. He smiles. I smile back, I think. I am wearing dark glasses and an oversize peach t-shirt so I know he can't see me... at least not much of me. He scribbles something on a business card and hold it up. I can't see all of it, but I'm sure it is a phone number. He nods. I raise my eyebrows, mildly amused, and I tell my bff what is happening. We enjoy a chuckle which this man takes as my interest in his antics. He motions for me to roll down the window and holds the card out for me to take. I decline politely with a flash of wedding rings and drive on. A first for me I think... being hit upon in rush hour traffic on a Friday afternoon.

50 Words - Answers (a deux)

The simple questions she can answer without thinking will never be as important as those things which only one can learn by mistake. That's the crux of it really. It's what I meant when I said you cannot compare shallow textbook learning and memorization to the depths of my experience.

For along with those experiences come a mryiad of memories, indescribably joys, sheer pain, unthinkable losses, relentless grief, and ocassionally rage. Through the haze of disorganization, confusion and anguish comes speed, agility, ability and attitude; all things you know nothing of. When you begin to develop those, we'll talk.