Have you ever tasted a bergamot before? I had not until today. They are like oranges mixed with limes and they are in season, here during the winter. They remind me of you the way that peaches ginger and persimmons and snap peas do like shrimp scampi or olive oil cake or coffee, black in the afternoon. I think they would taste good inside the cavity of a roasted fish laid to rest on a bed of garlic scapes (though, that would require a crossing of seasons) or, maybe squeezed into gin and soda steeped with honey in a cup of tea. I am talking about bergamots because I have run out of other, more complicated words but what I am really trying to say is that your aftertaste still lingers though I have tried so hard to get rid of it you stay bitter and sweet and exhausting like the thick of winter relentlessly unrelenting a chronic cold that refuses to be cured. I am talking about bergamots but I am also saying to you now, finally (although, I'm certain you'll never read this) that you have managed to haunt my pantry lurking in jars of pistachios hiding in bins of flour and quart containers shoved to the back of the fridge. But I am regaining my appetite slowly I am getting hungrier, now tasting as I go watching dough rise and water boil drowning (occasionally, at times, less and less) in a sea of recipes that I am too afraid to cook because maybe they'll taste like you.
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A beautiful visual I can taste