The Dust of High Altitudes
The air at high altitudes has a specific, metallic bite, like licking a cold iron spoon. It tastes of thin oxygen and ancient, pulverized stone. I remember the feeling of grit against my teeth after a long day of walking, that dry, persistent…
The Language of the Market
I often find myself wandering the narrow arteries of a city just as the sun begins to lean into the afternoon, seeking the places where the air smells of charcoal and hot oil. There is a particular honesty in a meal served on a plastic plate,…
Macaron Cones byLeanne Lindsay The Weight of Sugar
When I was seven, my grandmother kept a tin of hard candies on the high shelf of her pantry. I remember the way the light caught the glass lid, turning the contents into a pile of jewels that seemed too bright for a kitchen. I was not allowed…