Tabouleh. Spring.

I woke up today with the most intense craving for tabouleh.  It’s fresh, it’s bright green, and the little tomato bits explode when you chew them.

All of my friends like punk rock.  I do, too, I like my music loud, but I also like my world lofty.  Secretly, secretly I put on Leonard Cohen before putting out the parsley, lemon, couscous, cucumbers, tomato, more.  The windows are open on this gray, late Spring day and our neighbor’s house is swarmed with working men, replacing insulation.

Their hammers bang against the siding while the french knife chops the parsley.  Slicing through the onions, they saw through wood outside.  It’s a misty sunset, and I think it’s over the top that this time the onions did make me cry.

Cohen is a poet before a songwriter, and a songwriter before being a man he’s so good at it all.

I take extra long to make dinner tonight, drag it out an hour, and we’ve got tabouleh Hotchkiss style, homemade hummous and toasted bread.  Mm mm, late Spring.

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