Saturday, November 10, 2007


The tomatoes – seemingly ripened and reddened by the summer day – are cored and quartered. The holiest of trinities – fresh garlic ground by my mortar and pestle into paste, moistened stale breadcrusts and sherry vinegar from Sevilla have been stirred into a glass bowl – their flavours have seeped into brilliant colour. As night spreads her tablecloth of stars, I smooth the soup, anointing it with olive oil from Cordoba.

almost autumn –
a Flamenco tune
on a lone guitar
by Hortensia Anderson
New York City, New York

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