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Dec.15,2013It isn’t much, this writing I do in the early morning.  I sit in a small, hometown restaurant, sometimes filled with locals and truckers.  They tell local stories that don’t mean to say much, but in the end, says everything that needs saying.  Other times, like today, I’m in before the regulars, to say my good mornings the the cook, who has my order memorized but politely asks me anyway.  With a click of her pen and a swoosh I find myself in muted solitude, as the waitress doesn’t come in for another half hour.  The morning itself sees a break, and strikes up a conversation.
This morning begins with a low, soft song of the reefers, an exhaust fan over the griddle, and eggs, potatoes, and meat frying and crackling in the grill.
Like every good song, it is also a story. Â I hear the punctuation with the metallic scrape of the spatula across the griddle, the staccato rapping of its hard edge chopping, another long scrap, and the sudden flourish of freshly sizzling food.
The coffee pot begins its morning crescendo, a light but powerful chatter of drops. Â At first there is nothing more than the thin tinkling of drops against the naked glass, and I find myself leaning in just a little, to catch the delicate trill. Â slowly though with the patience and timing of a Master, it broadens and deepens into a torrent of hot liquid pools. Â The humble Pyrex is transformed, as I sit across from it, to a full throated percussion piece, and I close my eyes as the movement pulls together in powerful finale.
And there, in time with the sweeping crest of my own emotions, the music quiets, and allows my imaginations a space to be, to reflect, and to allow my joy at its beauty bask, and cure in its own light for a moment.
 The plate’s gentle clunk onto my table, and the swirl of coffee into my cup bring me to the next movement of this extraordinary symphony: The Aromas.
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