A good apricot is an elusive thing. As in the quest for a good man, you have to bite into quite a few before you find a winner. I read recently that Frankenstein farmers are taking the best elements from an apricot and the best from a plum and creating delicious hybrids with names like pluot, plumcot and apriplum. And yet I still want that perfect apricot, with its faintly downy curves, rosy bloom and fudgy flesh. Once in a blue moon, you might come across such a specimen, most often of the Blenheim variety. (Those of you familiar with Penhaligon's fragrances will remember Blenheim Bouquet, a bracing mix of citrus oils, spice and woods that has nothing to do with apricots but provided inspiration for the title of this post.) But somehow even the very best apricot never seems to quite live up to the taste I carry in my sense memory. Which is where roasting comes in...
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The storm came and it took so much from us: our electricity, our water, our phones, our internet. It took our connections. Our lights. Our power. We became vulnerable, alone and in the dark. We were frightened. And then we rallied and made do. We foraged for water. We built roaring fires and lit candles. We strapped on battery-run headlamps and cooked hands-free. We traveled to friends' houses to swap stories, plug in and reassure each other that all was well. Everywhere we went, the horribly splintered and gaping maws of downed trees reminded us of Sandy's strength. When we finally saw the images of those places truly under water, we were humbled. For what does a little time without the trappings of civilization compare to life irrevocably changed by devastation and death? We were the lucky ones. As I always say, those of us left behind must lift our heads, set our jaws and move forward. One sure way to reclaim our power? We voted.
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