Something inside the oven is sending the cinnamony smells, wafting through the house, but there’s no relieve gasps, hovering sound or joyful smile from my mouth. It should be wonderful, but it’s not.
I remove the banana bread and transfer to a wire rack. I see the cracks on top of it but then I thought what’s so beautiful about a crack in a loaf? An impossible question wouldn’t come slightly into my mind long ago.
I slice them and put it in my mouth, hoping to taste its magic like it used to, hoping find my enthusiasm inside the gentle mix of cinnamon, palm sugar, flour, butter and mashed banana that used to comfort me, but I find none. I’m in void.
I touch the old brass tray, the silver plated forks and spoons and knives, the 50 years old traditional pan to feel the rustic feeling, to imagine our great grandmothers play them along in their idyllic kitchen, to feel the memories, think how they become a secret treasure for us; but I can only see a bunch of artifacts.
I’m waiting the golden and blue hour, when the soft light slowly falls into different objects, creating shadow and mood and ambience, to see how light hit a drop of honey and let it sparkle, to watch the light play it magic and try to capture its beauty thru my 50 mm lens.
But I stepped back when I see none. Feel none.
I think I lost my sight.
The bluish hue, yellowish tone or complement color doesn’t attract me more.
I think I’m numb.
I couldn’t recognize the graphically design of veggies, the texture of rotten fruits, the fancy butter cream on top of cupcakes or simply the shape of dash of flour.
The yeasty waffles, the milky bread, the buttery pies, the sweet sour berries, the exotic smell of herbs and spices, the bubbling homemade fruit jam, the thousand layer pastry all gone into nowhere.
They used to mesmerize me, attract me, entice me, and kick my taste bud, shiver my vein, excite my heart, invite my saliva, open my weary eyes and tickling my nose.
I’m losing touch to something I used to, losing touch to something I once loved.