Write it Down!

I loved this that Kristen wrote over at her "French Word a Day" blog. It captures so well the frustration of the aging memory that I (who had a legendary memory at one time) struggle with on a daily basis. I, too, must now write things down before I lose them and they are gone forever. Write it down! That's the only way to do it for me any more =(

Write it down while it is fresh in your mind, fresh as the hand-grated parmesan that falls over scalding hot risotto.

Write it down while it is thick, thick as the brouillard [fog] that covers a patchwork of grapevines on the rolling hills of northern Italy in December.

Write it down while it is still chattering, like the wrinkled signores' "Bene! bene!" in the town square at Monforte d'Alba.

Write it down while it is strong, strong as the ink-black espresso that fills half a demitasse* at Marco's place in Alba.

Write it down while it is pouring, like the olive oil my husband splashes onto his plate for bread-dipping while waiting for the antipasti.

Write it down while it flows, like red Dolcetto* from an uncorked bottle. Write it down while it is dark, like the winter sky above the foothills in the Piedmont.

Write it down while it is hot, hot as the bagna cauda* that bathes the yellow roasted peppers and halved onions in Renza's kitchen.

Write it down while it is passionate, like the lovers' quarrel that silences an entire Italian cantina but for the flailing lips of one Franco-American couple.

Write it down while it is fizzing like sparkling water, now swallowed (along with a bit of pride and an apology), at a pizza dive on the outskirts of Bra.

Write it down while it is funny, like the name of the Italian town above.

Write it down while it is sensual, like the lips of the kissing Italians. (Why do they call the twirling of tongues "French kissing"? You've not seen kissing until you've seen Italian kissing!)

Write it down while it is crisp, like the cotton sheets at Alberto's bed and breakfast in Castiglione Falletto.

Write it down before it is gone, never to return, like cappuccino foam at the bottom of a cup. Pop...pop...pop.... Poof!

Photos: Cassis, France, where I had an unforgettable conversation the summer of 2004 with a Frenchman that I later wrote down so I wouldn't forget; my hotel room work space where I wrote and drew assignments for my Creativity Workshop class in Aix-en-Provence, France; sunflowers in outdoor market of Aix that inspired much of my writing the summer of 2004; garden park overlooking Cassis Harbor, where I sat and wrote about the conversation I didn't want to forget; drawing of doors and side streets of Aix that I did as part of my "Book of Days' assignment that summer.