"The figs we ate wrapped in bacon. The gelato we consumed lustily: coconut milk, clove, fresh pear. How we’d dump hot espresso on it, just watch it melt, licking our spoons clean. The potatoes fried in duck fat, the salt we’d suck off our fingers, the eggs we’d watch get beaten ’til they were a dizzying bright yellow, how their edges crisped in the pan. The pink salt blossom of prosciutto we pulled apart with our hands, melting on our eager tongues. The green herbs with goat cheese, the aged brie paired with a small pot of strawberry jam, the final sour cherry we kept politely pushing onto each other’s plate, saying, No, you. But it’s so good. No, it’s yours. How I finally put an end to it, plucked it from the plate, and stuck it in my mouth. How good it tasted: so sweet and so tart. How good it felt: to want something and pretend you don’t, and to get it anyway."
july by christen o'keefe aptowicz
matthew in the sun a few weeks ago
steventon within abingdon, oxfordshire
lucy ketchin on holiday in cornwall, 2013
the wagon tracks by joan miró