The world on my table
Olive oil, carrying riches from far away Italy. A little puddle.
Now simmering gold at the bottom of the silver pot.
The spices thrown in: turmeric, garam masala, coriander from India releasing a bouquet so rich, just enough to close the eyes and breathe the fragrant air.
Onions, local, ginger from China, garlic, local, all shredded, kissing the spices briefly before tumbling playfully around with them.
Carrots, local, holding the summer sun pressed tightly along their lengths. Cut in chunks and sent into the playground, now wearing coats of all that has gone before them.
Then the stock, lovingly made with the bones of forgotten roasts a month - maybe two - ago. 5 cups.
Simmering on the wood stove for, it doesn't matter. An hour, two.
Withdrawn then, nose hovering above, catching all these blended magnificences, unique yet now together.
Then the coconut milk. From the Caribbean. Folded in. Softly whisked.
Pureed into a red bowl.
Gently bottled up. Labelled. Dated.
Sunshine from around the world.
To awaken in the short days of winter.