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RUM-pa-pum-pum
Jun. 11th, 2008 01:02 amI just spent twenty minutes standing on the back deck, watching the storm pass.
After three days of smothering, slippery heat, the temperature free-fell twenty degrees in an hour. I stood wind-pummeled and shirtless while the storm strode past to the north of us, wearing seven-league boots, laying about itself with white whips. It sprinkled me with its aspergillum as it passed, blessing me, but it didn't douse me, didn't soak me the way I wanted. That's okay.
Inside, I found window fans on the floor, takeout menus blown down the hall.
I didn't tell you, I think, that when I came home from work on Friday I found a little cup full of fresh rambutans waiting on the kitchen counter, like big burrs of deep maroon and velvet. I hadn't tasted them (or seen them) in twenty-five years, since I lived in Malaysia, but![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
adfamiliares had found them for me. Using my thumbnail (just like the old farmer showed little me), I split the skin between the spines and slid it like a jacket off the shoulders of the fruit inside — cream-colored, pleasantly gelatinous, springtime fragrant. It tasted just like I remembered.
(Hey! I get to marry this girl.)
After three days of smothering, slippery heat, the temperature free-fell twenty degrees in an hour. I stood wind-pummeled and shirtless while the storm strode past to the north of us, wearing seven-league boots, laying about itself with white whips. It sprinkled me with its aspergillum as it passed, blessing me, but it didn't douse me, didn't soak me the way I wanted. That's okay.
Inside, I found window fans on the floor, takeout menus blown down the hall.
I didn't tell you, I think, that when I came home from work on Friday I found a little cup full of fresh rambutans waiting on the kitchen counter, like big burrs of deep maroon and velvet. I hadn't tasted them (or seen them) in twenty-five years, since I lived in Malaysia, but
adfamiliares had found them for me. Using my thumbnail (just like the old farmer showed little me), I split the skin between the spines and slid it like a jacket off the shoulders of the fruit inside — cream-colored, pleasantly gelatinous, springtime fragrant. It tasted just like I remembered.(Hey! I get to marry this girl.)
