Dizzy

Someone recently asked me what I’m inspired by.

I almost said “nothing.”

Not “nothing” as in I didn’t say anything.

“Nothing” as in I am inspired by nothing.

Nothing inspires me.

Maybe it was a habit answer.

That was true ten months ago.

And eight months ago.

Maybe even six.

But not now.

Now I am inspired by everything.

Dizzy with it.

This fall that has faded so seamlessly into winter that I balked at an imperfect apple, not realizing it’s two days from Christmas.

Piles of herbs.

I’m inspired by my friend who grows them, sends them finely chopped and heaped over eggs.

I’m inspired by fried sage and those Japanese sweet potatoes from Miliken I can’t seem to get enough of.

By pads of butter thick as my pinky.

And honey.

And Russian caravan tea.

The pomegranates, so ripe they crack open on the tree, leaking in their abundance.

I’m inspired by hearty vegetables and the hatch chiles Sally brings up from New Mexico.

I am inspired by this foreign climate where things are still growing and yesterday I wore a t-shirt and saw side boob on a friend.

I’m so inspired by persimmons I almost can’t talk bout it.

Color.

Texture.

Flavor.

Certainly the singularity of eating a persimmon - a truly ripe persimmon - gets lost somewhere between the experience and words.

My heart beats for the pepper trees.

I’m inspired by the human process of aging, growing, developing.

By the things we learn early on, like watching the top of a pancake.

Wait for all the bubbles to pop, then flip it.

In my house the first pancake always went to the birds.

Little girls pulling pancake apart on the back deck, lining the railing.

Everything lives in that moment.

An entire future of loving food and the process.

The ritual.

The importance of intention.

And fun.

I am inspired by that too.