Brunch
Biting. Zesty. Tangy. Sparkling.... Piquant!
Rod has fallen in love.
Not that blind senseless staggering about newborn. Or that wild, kick your heels in the air feeling. No, its the necessity to lightly smear fresh Basil Pesto over warm, yeasty focaccia. An act of passion.
Olive oil, extra virgin;
Avocadoes, green and firm;
Mushrooms, black, ugly and musky;
Shallots. Anchovies. Brie. Dijon mustard.
His supermarket trolley is full. Stunned at the look he'd saved for her, the mirror image of what she had made him into, he stands complete above his trolley, proud and confident. Two bottles of Sauvignon Blanc, a small bunch of red roses, the smell of his new cologne — her gift to him — wafting up through his new sky blue shirt. He doesn't care what they think, these squint eyed women that silently pack his groceries from behind the till.
Love is the aroma of crisp cheesy muffins, baking in the fresh morning air, needing a light spreading of babaghanoush, a juicy spluttering of lightly grilled bacon, a stinging of caper berries, a slippery slide of sun dried tomatoes in their tangy olive oil marinade, just waiting for the eggs. Love is the brunch of their Sundays together. She has taught him well, and oh how he lives for the richness, the affection of caring for her.
Love is also the molten, creamy blue cheese sauce, dripping from the mound of perfect soft yellow crepes. But that had been that earth shattering first weekend together last month. They'd kissed above the pan, brushed at each other's skin, moved about together in the tiny space of her kitchen, glowing in the crisp morning light, all sense an electric sizzle.
He is busy now with this feeling, busy with the waiting while the chocolate sets on the still warm Florentines. The tang of lemon peel and ginger an excitement on his pallet, the grinding crunch of brittle warm almonds as he chews, waiting. He could lay them at the bedside but they are not yet firm or perfect enough.
Her blonde hair is an explosion of icing sugar whisked out on the pillow. Her eyes are pistachios, firmly locked in their creamy shells. She doesn't rouse to the smell of coffee brewing or his noisy whisking of froth. Dough rises in the perfection of her soft cheeks. Her scent is a power, trapped in the light cotton of the Balinese sarong knotted loosely about his middle, her sarong. The wild bright orange and pale blue blossoms of the fabric are tamed in this dark room, curtained off from the late morning light. His room.
She doesn't stir as he clears the bedside cabinet of the finger marked wine glasses, the near empty platter on the carpet, an epitaph to their evening's foreplay with its grape stalks, cheese rind and olive pits. He could slide in beside her, wrap an arm around her warm middle, kiss the salt from her neck, but he waits. Waits for the eruption of joy that her waking face will bring him. Watching her sleep, she remains his Kapiti Island, hauntingly tranquil, beautiful in a sea of blue. Just out of reach.
Rod has picked five Nasturtiums bursting bright from the dunes of his mornings walk. He arranges them in a cream saucer then places the poached eggs over the muffins, stirs the Hollandaise out into a fluffy glob that he watches melt and spread over the hot eggs. He tops the coffees, one with cinnamon, the other chocolate. He arranges the flowers on the tray. He is ready.
She stirs now. One eye squints out through its gooey opening.
Her face knots up into a wrinkled scowl.
"God do you have to be so damned busy first thing in the morning?"
Her cheek falls back into the damp pillow-stain of fresh spittle.
"I'm feeling a bit off mate."
"Alright if I just go back to sleep for a bit?" Her eyes close.
"No don't come near me, my mouth is foul."
"Just get me a glass of water thanks."
"I'm feeling right dodgy..."
"I don't think I can eat anything."