Fickle

Even before I’d seen the two good comments on yesterday’s post I was worrying about whether I had given a true picture.¹ Maybe you think I don’t like Rome, that I’m itching to return? Well, no. I do like Rome.

Last night, walking Mel, I did a little grocery shopping. Among the purchases, a couple of green tomatoes and a yellow-skinned melon. The tomatoes are of a variety that stays somewhat green and yet is ripe enough to be flavoursome; tart, but also full of tomato sweetness. And the melon was one of the green-fleshed kind that I really prefer to orange-fleshed cantaloupes. It was, dare I say it, perfect. The flesh had a pale-peach blush to it in places and was firm, crisp even, yet meltingly tender, all at once. Cantaloupes I find mushy. The flavour and fragrance were impossible to disentangle, nor would I want to, and there was just a hint of cucumber in there to add to the pleasure. Those are commonplace treats that I have no desire to abandon.

Yet, as time passes, I do wonder about life after work, and I want the opportunity to grow tastes like those again for myself. Something will turn up.