There's a café/restaurant in Montpelier where I spend time now and then (it's also the space where my first showing of photography hung). Has a big salad bar featuring food both hot and cold, including a sizeable spread of disgustingly wholesome chow, a bunch of sushi, and a few desserts made on premises, including slices of a world-class chocolate cake made with maple syrup and dark, dark chocolate -- killer fare, at its best unbelievably smooth and packed with the kind of flavor that gets my fork flailing faster and faster until I find myself with an empty plate, searching despairingly for crumbs and microscopic traces of thick frosting. Intensely addictive.
I meet at that joint every couple of weeks with one or two or three other weirdos to spend an hour speaking in Spanish, and generally show up early to shovel down a piece of chocolate cake so that I'm buzzing blissfully by the time conversation in Spanish gets underway.
This past Tuesday was the last such occasion, I found myself there buying a snack, pre-Spanish-jabber-session. The person at the register is the 20-something daughter of the café's owner, in the course of blather while I'm paying up I learned that she is the person responsible for
Only the second time I'd popped that particular question in this life of mine.
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This morning at the farmers market -- Montpelier, Vermont:
España, te echo de menos.
rws 3:38 PM [+]
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