LA FIGUE
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picking cherries, apples, wants a ladder - on which every girl gracious, antique, would gladly have assembled without concern for our looking up to us to give the hosanna of his slender legs.
branching tree, the fig tree has branches so flexible that, with a clean stick hooks, the highest let themselves fall back, in a rustle of vellum to your hand. Hardwood, he superimposes large three-lobed leaf blades almost as rough the leaf sunflower or pumpkin; that sheepskin not yet wrought.
dangling at the end of the shoot, one or more tiny gourds, white or purplish, rounded to teardrop or raindrop stopped by a twig. The pressure of two fingers we have confirmed the maturity of the fruit, a slight twist is enough to break the short stalk.
I can understand that we bite into a fig without preamble and the swallows as they almost conical shape invites us to do, but I made too much flesh to have to meet under the tooth, a ridged skin, resolved, when it melts the cherry in the pulp firmness, and when one of our fish veloute gum. I like that there are fruits that deserve and the short time where j'apprête it made my mouth the altar where I receive my sacrament, I have to envy the close of the insured.
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a pocket knife or nail, the skin j'incise closer and flap after flap, I undress the flesh, I shall sort of a tease ... ! In doing so, I put a bare flesh or ivory veined pink or amethyst. Fresh, oozing, it is by its roundness, which tapers, sip ideal. Cherry, currant, would make no less office? But a fig plumper takes a shot while your palate, she lines it with the juice it exudes in getting rid of the moment, so loose is the network of feeder canals. A succession of which the throat is of a vivid memory after the flesh itself was swallowed.
liquors we have fruit, it is more syrupy. But it combines the sweetness of a dessert closed mellitus and adjournment that gives us, after a cream or mocha, the water we drink, as if to our palates again shrewd and ready for the next celebration.
Some flavors, opaque, clog and saturate the palate. That of the fig spread abroad by the palatal vault slight and fleeting anointing. Sugar is translucent and fought by a taste of dew which protects us from satiety. (Like the cherry, a fig does not admit to be the last!) And we find ourselves mouth fragrant, while the pulp is almost odorless.
disintegrating, collapsing just closed mouth, the fruit given to us without the tongue or the teeth have a core to unseal the lips to deport: the fig is not a bay, but according to botanists, a Sycon. It contains in its center, a cluster of achenes roses, stalked, as delicate as the Scythian jewelry beads and we feel pleasure to sparkle in the tooth for the tiny and useless resistance they oppose us. Such an organization, reminiscent of the miniature geodes, is manifest, sliced fruit, but also reveals the fact when a storm burst. Then, in the large tear, the entire internal confusion - and crimson - the fig showing off to the point that the word obscene comes to mind.
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In July, already had expressed my fig prodigal, but how to prevail when the stalls are teeming with strawberries, cherries, peaches, of apricot or raspberry? If I find figs in September, a singular pleasure, is that many of the tree leaves, yellow, rusty, dot the ground, assuring me that autumn is in sight. And without Exquisite doubt tomorrow will not make me default under the species of Muscat, walnut, pear or Beurre Hardy. I do not Elis least among all the fig fruit ingestion of holding and gulp gulp - even the sigh of relief! For the sun that I must bite his successor slender, its flesh is prone to pickling. For satiety constantly deferred it creates and maintains.
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Whispers ...
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The love
The love in me? Always between ecstasy and annihilation, a girl who wanders a little crazy, in a field of poppies ...
But there are also days when I love you, teeth clenched, with cohesion, determination of the stone. Which I gather by large circular motions like the child is surrounded by sand on the beach.
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The lover
If I had to translate a word, the tactile sensation that you give to see you, it would be of velvety . Obvious to your eyes, your eyes, your face, the word does not suit your least whole person, including voice and silence, and even clothes, whatever they be.
And when I try to make progress in good grace, the companion, the increased resources of the lover, since we know it, I do not think the words you develop, affine depth your velvet.
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François Solesmes The Murmurs of love , Ink Navy.
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