The days get long towards the end of the semester, even as they get short of light. Especially now (or rather, then); no exams, the pleasure of papers to be sure, though writing from dawn to dusk. And thus there are hours to be broken up, nutriment to the system so it can produce.
And some fun along the way too, god forbid anything ever get in the way of that.
Behold, a 3-4pm meal. Not quite lunch, not quite dinner, but that perfect mid-way point in a full day of paper.
In the spirit of culling quotes for collation, the refrigerator becomes a text from which I lift my fragments to stitch together.
Those ornamental gourds those glossy footnotes that somehow reveal that nugget you need to drive home argument #2.
That is to say, they carry no flesh to speak of, but slice them open and you will be rewarded with more seeds than you can shake a sheaf of foolscap at.
Fry them in rendered cocoa butter and salt. Be wary of flying projectiles.
The preface holds some dill fronds; Books I-IX some carrots and sweet tender rutabaga; delve back through those endnotes cause you know you saw a thick jar of herbs preserved in olive oil the first time round, comfrey, St. John’s wort, calendula.
Oh and those old radishes that somehow stayed intact through translation, more or less.
Eat me now while there’s still light to see by.
And then it was back to the writing board, these fragments shored against my ruins.