What I Did For Love, II

My best friend stood up at my wedding. She is clever with words, very clever, and punch funny. As best maid, the toast was her task, and she nailed it, or would have, had her words come as true as I hoped. “He is the salt of the earth. She is the spice of life. Together they make a perfect recipe.”

I am well aware that there is no such thing as a perfect recipe, and that perfect is the enemy of good, and that a perfect life is imperfect. On and on. Still…determining when the imperfection’s glare is enough to blind you is, well, an imperfect science.

If I had to choose, salt or spice, I admit I would take salt. Today. Tomorrow I choose spice. It is a quandary with no good option, not as critical as the question, would you rather be blind or deaf (you know you have thought about it), for sure, but it does make you dig deep into your needs and wants.

For tonight, the Ides of March, pork rubbed with pepper as red as corned beef, sliced thick, on juice-sopped sourdough. For Wednesday, St. Patrick’s Day, between slabs of rye, corned brisket with cinnamon the shade of pan drippings, ginger as pale as leaf lard, and cloves with the strength of bacon bits. For spring, coming soon, on a baguette, with mustard, slivered leg of lamb with rosemary as green as wet moss and garlic as damp as a bone-chilling fog. Add salt. Particularly for the corned beef, please.

Renee Comet

Lisa Cherkasky

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