The scent of onion is clinging to every piece of my clothing. Undoubtedly, if you were to brave the innards of my cycling shoes, moist with melting snow, you'd be met with onion. This is the final breath of last night's meal, a biweekly commitment with each returning visit to Minneapolis.
A fresh break from hotel cooking and tables for one, the impromptu dinners involve counters toppling with fresh produce and endless supply of new recipes awaiting exploration. Wine bottles surf through an overcrowded kitchen, echoing with 90's song lyrics and laughter.
Neighbors never knock, bedtimes never take precedent over dessert. This is the makeshift version of adulthood we've created for ourselves without wholly embracing the term itself. Personally, identifying by such a title would seem false advertisement, with my inability to fold fitted mattress sheets and the childish giggles I emit at the mere thought of the dancing mushrooms from Fantasia. But in true family-style form, circled around the table observing plates being served, in the silent moment as we each survey the plates of our accomplishments, there is recognition that we are getting close. You can only eat gummy bears for breakfast so many times before your teeth fall out.
The truth is that you can go home again. It's just never quite the same as when you left. The reheated meals of yesterday transformed into well seasoned souffles and fresh rising bread. Sometimes you realize the best you can hope for is to circle around, fork in hand, for the final result.
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hey amy, mayby im just a sucker for good writing, or because i know how good that souffle is, or because i am a sappy romantic, or all of the above, but i may or may not have teared up a little with this post. awwww.
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