Saturday, September 11, 2010

in my kitchen

In my kitchen a pot begins to boil right about now, now being the moment when the trees begin to undress of its summer attire while the people begin to layer up on theirs. It is a not so special pot. It’s black and dented to an awkward oval shape; it was picked for that very reason, since no lid would have it for a home due to its bulbous predicament and being a person who uses what she has, it seemed appropriate to reallocate this odd-pot-out for the task of maintaining the witches brew. The witches brew isn’t something magical either. It is not a refined potion nor all powerful nor even omnipresent for that matter. It doesn’t help me to see into the future or curse a few malcontented thoughts that linger with an insult. It is not something passed down through the generations for me to proclaim novelty either. It simply is a boiling pot of water with a few herbs and spices to scent the air. Every year, the concoction changes to the mood – maybe a little more cinnamon, a little less nutmeg; a random bunch of spearmint left over from the autumnal lamb and sometimes I add a dollop of sandalwood oil. It serves two purposes mostly – to keep the drying air moist for the wintering months and to keep me breathing in deep while the daylight dies a little more each day.

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