November 28, 2014

Roast pork on kaiser with avocado, dijon and black pepper


I am self-editing constantly. Before this I wrote "There is a navy blue runner with a chevron print on the kitchen table."

Before this I wrote "I am self-editing all of the time."

I simplify.

There is no self-edit there.

It is Friday and it is past the lunching hour for me. I sat down to the table with a kaiser roll split in half with a large serrated knife from the knife drawer. I pulled a white plate from the cupboard that holds the white plates and white bowls. I pulled a smaller serrated knife and a fork from the utensil drawer next to the kitchen sink. There is a spoon with avocado residue on it laying in the kitchen sink.

I thinly sliced four pieces of pork that roasted in the dutch oven the day before with caramelized onions and rosemary. The pork is tender and tastes of caramelized onions and rosemary. I placed thin slices of pork onto the kaiser roll—the best kaiser roll I could find at the market—and spread a layer of dijon onto the pork. Usually I'll spread the dijon onto the roll, but I thought it might be nice to "change it up."

With the guts of the avocado sitting—waiting—on the tiny yellow cutting board, I cracked black pepper onto the dijon that sits on top of the pork that is sitting on top of the kaiser that is sitting on top of the white plate that is sitting on top of the navy blue runner with the chevron print.

I'd love to edit that sentence.

Or, I'd love to embed some punctuation. I wonder if Hemingway would have written it with or without?

The avocado is sliced and there is residue on the smaller serrated knife.

The kitchen still smells of pork, rosemary and caramelized onions. The espresso machine is clicking. I have already had an espresso. I drank it after I ate the sandwich and much after some internal debate on whether or not I was done eating or if I should eat more. I wondered what I would eat. Crackers? Fruit? I decided to stop eating and made a coffee.

I pulled the tin of Illy dark espresso roast from the coffee cupboard that hangs above the espresso machine and wine rack. We are down four bottles of wine in a rack that holds eighteen. We'll need to restock. The empty spaces add up so quickly when you're not paying attention.

I pulled the tin of Illy dark espresso roast from the coffee cupboard and thought about the evening before and the conversation of buying a better coffee grinder so that we could invest in a good bag of coffee beans. But where can we buy good coffee beans? Illy is okay for me. I have an affection for coffee that goes beyond the flavor of the bean. It is the rush I get and the subsequent calm. I am often looking out the kitchen window at passing clouds and swaying power lines, listening to the espresso machine click.

I pulled the tin of Illy dark espresso roast from the coffee cupboard and made a single. I walked over to the sink and looked out the kitchen window and took a sip. While watching the clouds roll by and the power lines sway I felt a rush as the hot coffee traveled down my esophagus into my stomach. I felt the heat the entire way down. I felt the rush and the subsequent calm. You see I have this thing, this affection for coffee, this affection for espresso that goes beyond the flavor of the bean.

And in the kitchen sink sits the white plate, small serrated knife, fork and yellow cutting board.


  1. I love that you love to simplify. And I love that you thought of what Hemingway would think. I like Hemingway; I think he would've liked that paragraph just like it is. No pesky punctuations.
    I bet he'd have loved that perfectly edited kaiser roll too.

    1. Thank you, Pia. I wonder what Hemmingway would think about a lot of the writing that I've done. Whether he would think it utter nonsense or if it has potential.

  2. absolutely delightful read. Go Tracy go.
    I am with you, taking in the aromas of rosemary and caramelized onions, the click of the espresso maker, the sweep of the power lines.

    1. I am giving it a go, again. However it is quite funny as I have never stopped writing in my head.

  3. Lovely, Tracy. I'm so happy to see you writing here again.


Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.