Of Madness and Crazy days
A Tale of the Meal of the Day
My Gorgeous Sara,
What wouldn’t I give to share your air, live in your space and be with you. I would trade the universe and all its beauty and charm. How do you fare? Does your beauty still astound the stoics, blind the painters render speechless the poets? I bet it does. I know it does.
Today, well, today I was a client in the lovely hotel of life. The ambiance is somewhat average. the colors are bland to meld in with everyone’s tastes. The windows stoop low enough to let the light in without hurting your eyes but leave enough dark corners for you to stare at mysteriously and wonder what lurks there. The waiters are nondescript and unreachable. they peer at you through skeptical eyes as they rush to bring you your daily order. And don’t you dare ask to see the manager. Rumour has it people have been looking for him and have never found him. Oh, the menu, did I speak about the menu?
There is none.
See, every dish is a surprise, cooked by the chef in the back. You can see the top of his hat over the partition that separates the dining area from the kitchen. It bobs back and forth as he gives inaudible orders to an invisible force of kitchen-hands who are all-too-willing to do his bidding. His face somehow never seems to make it past the partition, and all we ever see is his hat, bobbing away. But he is good at his job and we all know it. No order has ever been made it back to his kitchen once dispatched. You eat what you are served.
And there I sat awaiting my order. the sun slowly creeping up the windows, it’s rays snaking their way up to my eyes. I could see the hat in the kitchen bobbing up and down as soon as the waiter headed back to the counter. It was on. The tray gets to my table, the waiter smiles as he raises the cover and BAM!!
Here’s a serving of Madness and a side of Crazy Day
Yes, my love. That’s what I got. Just when I wanted Roses and Sunshine, perhaps with a side of Good-Natured Humour. What do I get, the main dish of the flip-floppers, Madness. I dug in. What choice did I have? There are no takebacks in this restaurant. You eat what you get.
Madness, let me tell you about it. It wraps around your tongue like a sensuous piece of spaghetti. You bite at it and it slips away, begging you to follow, begging you to let it go free. You know you’re not supposed to let it happen but you do and it feels oh-so-good. You embrace the taste of it, You can feel the spice of it filling your nose, your sinuses and your lungs. Like a dark warmth, the feeling embraces and swallows you whole. Your eyes smart as the bitter-sweet heat kicks and your heart rushes like an engine unleashed. This is madness, this is lack of control and it feels so good. But you check yourself.
And there is no better side to this than Crazy Day. Crazy Day is a filling affair. It begins at the mouth, minty and tingling, icy hot and fiery cold at the same time. You can see what’s happening and you can feel it happening and you know how it ends but you can’t stop yourself. You’re in for the ride and you know it. It draws you in and you find yourself swimming in the sheer deliciousness of it all. Here and there, some spice. Here and there, some salt. And the aftertaste, It leaves you exhausted. Like your soul has been wrung of everything it could hold.
That was a meal for the ages, my sweet. My plate was clean. My order done. And like Oliver, I asked for one more.
And soon, you too shall see the bobbing hat, the sly eyes, and the foreboding tray. I hope your order is magnificent. Bon Appetit Ma Cherie.
Yours, Always,
Lawrence
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