The perfect fit.

My goodness. I go away for two weeks, for no really good reason, and it turns to spring, all fluttery pink and cream breezes and melting ice cream cones. This spring has a special tang for me, and I'm not sure why. I have slowed down. I don't trot across the footbridge on the way home anymore, and I meander everywhere, even to the mailroom at work. It is a pace that seems out of touch with this hustly-bustly city of mine, but I like it. It's nice to ride the tide, rather than trying to beat it.

I'm home alone this week, my betrothed being ensconced in an Alabama cabin with a stack of books, a bottle of bourbon, and his father. Over a patchy roaming connection, he's been relaying stories of old damned dogs wandering onto their porch and older men reminding him to celebrate Confederate Memorial Day. We both have deep roots in the south, and it's still easy to slip into the rhythms of a spring day down there. Even though he's not here, maybe I'm keeping company with him, trading a caffeinated strut down Broadway for a honeyed ramble through the fields. I can feel my voice relaxing into its old -- original? -- drawl, even just while on the phone at work. I am grateful for the comfort of our two worlds, even as they pose a constant quandary for us.

Maybe I miss the south, and him being in it this week makes me ache for it even more. Or maybe it's the spring winds buffeting my skirts as I walk to the subway. Whatever it is, I feel very slow right now, like molasses scootching into a gingerbread batter. 

Tonight, I came back from a slow run in the park (where a bug flew right down my gullet, the fool) just in time for our grocery delivery. I tore open the boxes, shoving cans of beans here and there, until I smelled what I was looking for: my strawberries. It's still too early for them yet, really, but I couldn't resist; they beckoned from Fresh Direct like twinkly diamonds. These were a luxurious red, and they even smelled red. I don't know how berries do that. I really do think that a blackberry -- a good, ripe one that explodes in your mouth -- smells like its own dusky deep color, and a good ripe strawberry smells like a strawberry color. And these, oh thank goodness, did. 

I washed some and cut their tops off, and curled up on the couch with a bowl of Greek yogurt, a big glass of water, and my berries, and ate it all very slowly, winding my tongue around the spoon to get every smidge of yogurt. I ate the strawberries like I ate cookies as a child -- bit by bit, one small bite at a time until there was nothing left but a few scattered seeds in the bowl. There is some food that is riotous, like a sizzling fajita or a tower of chocolate mousse, and there is some food that is sort of jokey, like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with the crusts cut off, or maybe a bowl of cherry Jell-O. But my dinner was quiet food, suited to this particular slowness that I've been simmering in for the past few weeks. It was perfect.

I'll be concocting a dark chocolate and Chambord torte for the Bake for the Cure next week, and I hope it's good enough to share with you. In the middle of that, though, I'm heading south to look at some wedding locations, and I hope to bring back some more ideas for you, and some more grits for me. In the meantime, find the food that fits you right now. It is a blessing.