Morning, noon, and night. Recipes. Stories; thousands of them. In this one, you are the moon and I am the sun and I chase you round the earth with my arms wide open. Every day I write you a star and it’s in this way that the whole sky fills with what I feel for you. One million years later I meet you in a garden; your mouth like a pomegranate, red and hungry. It’s here we fall in love; in this story and the one after and the one after that. Since the beginning of time, it’s been like this; this returning to the heart of you. Somewhere, light years away, we are lying in a field- maybe foxes, maybe two flowers, maybe as we are right now- staring into the infinity of space. I point at the sky and try to tell you the story of the stars but every time, it’s your name in my mouth; your thousand and thousand names.
Here is the story of the things we gathered, told through ingredients and time. All those days we spent in the garden, my head on your stomach, my hand in your hand. How time was slow and sweet like honey and the bees hummed and the peaches fell from their branches and bruised all around us and how we devoured them despite. We spent our summers there, in the garden; eating fruit like kings and queens, drinking riverwater like fine wine.