It’s white. Sky, air, trees and ground. Another blank page of a day. Who would’ve thought I would be fond of winters? Milk is frothing-hot. Rice milk. I’ve banned Almond milk in defense of bees. Almond butter included. I don’t feel like sustaining an industry that truck loads entrapped creatures cross country. 12 years a slave! That’s what bee colonies became. Since 2001, California increased it’s almond production and now hogs more than 80% of the world’s entire production. No, thanks. I can live on peanuts.
Gene grinned the coffee. It has a pretty name. Lyon. Its tin tells me I am defending lands and oceans, helping endangered species, aiding disaster relief. I’m a hero, and I am not even awake, yet. I hold my cup asking the same question I pronounce every time a Starbucks’ door swings open on a sidewalk: why doesn’t it tastes as good as it smells? I take brief sips followed by deep breaths of coffee.
A nest of brown shaded cocoons sit on the counter. As I cradled an egg on each hand, I pause. But ultimate design is meant to be practical. I crack the eggs open. 2 suns now sit in a bowl. Organic. not enough. Cage-free. No longer enough. Pasture-raised eggs are the old new way. According to the label, animals are now roaming free! This promise costs me $7 a dozen. The chickens down the road seem free. I just can’t make it there on time. Farm hours and rush hour are not compatible. I drive pass Cherry Grove every day and say: tomorrow.
Brown rice wrap is warmed up. I bite the gluten-free pouch filled with scrambled eggs, more dry than wet. I’ve sprinkled it with Flor de Sal. As close to lusitanian waters and Fernando Pessoa as I’ll ever get again. Coffee, eggs. A newspaper? No. I am on Twitter. Non-organic, caged, ranged news.
Time for the ritual. Sunday Brunch. I start with a bag of chamomile tea. Some lavender is thrown in. I place a towel over my head. Moist vapors clog my chest, but my pores are wide open. I breath the scent, but it’s lavender mascarpone I taste. Is the Princeton ice cream parlor open? I wash my face with a dabble of facial wash and a bit of baking soda. Rinse. I put aside a spoon full of egg whites. I whip it and cover my face with it. Something my mother taught me. I am white. It drys until I can’t move my lips. My sis would try to make me laugh every time. Good times. I rinse againand I am now protein infused. I pat my face dry and smother it with honey. Licking each finger, I wonder how is Mr. Tassot doing. He is fine. Beekeepers live forever, don’t they? My skin smiles. Rinse.
by Jen&Gene 