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| (Recipe from Simone Beck, adapted by Dorie Greenspan, with photo credit in the New York Times.) |
"A white cake filled and iced with coconut cream and apricot; published in Ms. Beck’s 1972 book, 'Simca’s Cuisine.'" Filled and iced with coconut cream and apricot. And the cake was brushed with orange-rum liqueur flambé to soak. After reading Sam Sifton's cooking column, I immediately went to my kitchen and made chrysanthemums-chamomile, with chunks of strawberries, iced tea — and dreamt of past summers in Paris with my cousin living there. In this old little world I’m reminiscing, at the river Seine (across the steps from the Jardin du Plantes in the 5th arr.) was our meeting place whenever I arrive independently from New York, and we called it our home at the crossroads of travel. At Le Pure Café (11th arr.) was our sidewalk oasis for catching up, more importantly for our kindred time as artist souls, and I imagine this tea and coconut cake on our table and us, les duex cousins, painting the town. Poetry was inevitably our core subject. It has been since we were young teenagers discovering our twin callings. Even if we are both much older now, everything is still palpable and alive “in that realm.” It is our language, and poetry is still speaking through us. She loves collecting fallen leaves along our walks (in my bedside journal is tucked an oak, June 9, 2017). One of our favorite books that “guide” us around Paris is “The Light We Don’t See.” Feeling a turn on the road and closing our eyes as we held hands, we knew we were there at the very spot when the book transcended its page.
There are beautiful reasons to visit the past, especially when a spoon at a time the memories and conversations are as sweet as cake. Sometimes I would arrive Paris without notice and I would call my cousin when I was already at the Seine. She knew well that randomness about me. Half an hour later, her hand would touch my shoulder from behind. There were months when she wouldn't hear from me, yet we sought each other out when the holidays or anniversaries were up; we would, like telepathy, email each other from different parts of the world at exactly the same time hitting send on the keyboard, and we were converged (I was at Siam Reap, Cambodia once, on Christmas, the time difference was blurry as I recalled counting the days, yet we managed to meet half way and not forget). She loves heart-shaped leaves. Anywhere I am, either walking on Waihe'e Coastal Dunes & Wetlands Refuge trail, or at the Bellevue Botanical Garden outside Seattle, this piece of crumb ... I will always find, her back to me.
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