I want to write about something delicious.
But what should I write about?
Delicious means highly pleasing to the senses, so that leaves the choices open far and wide. Of course, what I find delicious may not be what you find delicious…but we can only hope.
I searched online for “delicious images” but all Google could offer me were visions of a woman eating a frog, odd versions of the BMW logo, apples, and strange type treatments. The glorious food shots from Saveur and the much-missed Gourmet were absent; even the expected pictures of naked men and women were missing. They did throw in a strawberry every few rows, but I definitely didn’t feel sated after browsing. Oh, Google, I expected more.
I could write about the pan-seared duck breast served in a pool of chocolate-orange sauce at The China Grill in Chicago that was all the more tantalizing because it was an expense-account dinner. Or I could fondly remember the garlicky smell of frying meatballs (and the crackling din of the hot oil) on Sunday mornings in the Bronx while the marinara sauce bubbled and splattered in the black pot next to it and I watched “Wonderama.” There’s a ripe, juicy strawberry dripping chocolate fondue on a special first date. Or maybe the sugary sweet first forkful of Nanny’s lemon meringue pie that quickly dissolved into a tart, even sour, lemony slick with the juiciness of the fruit she had hand-squeezed into the pudding. Or the tender pushback of the cherrystone clams that Dad had sprinkled with bread crumbs and olive oil and garlic before returning them to their shells to bake briefly as one of Christmas Eve’s seven fishes.
Oh, wait, wait, wait…remember Mr. Softee ice cream? That creamy, milky soft-serve covered in pink and green and purple and yellow sprinkles that came from a little white truck that played the music we always heard from blocks away, giving us enough time to yell up to third-floor windows for our mothers to throw down some money to the street? It was most delicious when it dripped down your fingers right before the whole little swirl slumped in the summer sun and tumbled to the ground.
Was the most delicious thing the impromptu end-of-winter indoor picnic on the living room couch–olives and hard cheeses and bruschetta and a dry white wine, cobbled together from an endless stroll through A Southern Season (or what I wished could have been an endless stroll)?
Or was that “luscious,” because it spilled over into being a “luxuriant fullness or ripeness that makes an object rich…”
I will NOT write about the stuffed cabbage on New Year’s Eve, even though the soft, bulging leaves filled with a meaty stuffing and swimming in a thin tomato sauce were once a favorite. (They ceased to be delicious after one ill-fated year when a stomach bug hit right after the cabbage and right before midnight.)
I just learned that “overdelicious” is an actual word. Can there really be such a thing? Can a taste or aroma or touch or a nap ever really be too pleasing?
I wanted to write about something delicious. But I just couldn’t think of anything to say.