olive oil silkiness

Jeff and I went to Winter Park Friday night for a party.  Our friend is working at the clinic there for the month and had everyone over for her birthday and recent engagement.  We all brought our sleeping bags and slept packed in rows.  The next day, since Jeff couldn't go skiing with a broken finger, we went to a coffee shop and read. (I'm reading Great Expectations and Jeff is reading One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.)  Of course we spent moments in between paragraphs listening in on other's minor conversations or glancing at newspaper articles from a far. Every once in a while Jeff and I returned the favor with our own chatting.  We overheard one man coming in for fruit juice.  Listening to his exchange with the barrista, I found out that he doesn't have a sense of smell -- so coffee just tastes bitter.  And then I realized how much my love for coffee has much more to do with the sweet, earthy aromas than the taste.  I started thinking about how most food is like that.  All five of my senses work in harmony to create my deep passion for cooking.  The bright hues -- greens, purples, browns and yellows.  The way whites creep up stalks of celery and darken into green or how the whites suddenly break off to green in green onions.  Touch -- how fresh green beans break in crisps with one flick of the fingers or the silkiness of fresh bread dipped in olive oil on the roof of my mouth.  The sounds of soft blops of bubbling marina sauce or the whistle from the rice cooker.  The smells of butternut squash and apple bisque that's been simmering all day long on a cold day or kabobs and pineapple on the grill during the summer.  ...And of course tastes are important too.  The flavors of wine at the last few bites of a meal -- when it's had time to breathe and you've had time to synchronize the taste of food with the tannins of the grapes.