Spain in Maine

Dearest Melissa,

Of course I never forget you. Now that the snow is finally disappearing and my osteopath is performing miracles, I am getting back into the writing swing. You are never far from my mind. Here are a few times this week when I’ve thought of you:

The sun has risen pink each morning this week at 6:34 a.m. in the exact hue of the sunrise we could see down C/Rocafort a few hours later (well, earlier if you follow the time zone) makes me think of you.

The hot cross buns dotting bakery shelves in Portland make me think of the rocas de gaudí we could see out the bus window when we made the turn near C/Berlin but I could never find in my neighborhood and I always wanted to bite into a giant one and let the white dust cover my scarf.

I bought Holy Donuts for my advisory this morning. Maine potatoes, sea salt and dark chocolate. There was one left; it had your name on it.

I’ve been researching Copenhagen like a maniac and remembering sitting in your old apartment when you announced, “We will NEVER get a reservation at my potentially favorite restaurant in the world.” (Were you referring to Noma?)

I’ve been grading essays on Turnitin.com, remembering you in the Bunker circling paper rubrics and questioning your own math.

I walked along the ocean by Biddeford Pool where Maryb used to live and thought to myself, “Melissa would love this, too, though she’d hate the cold.” Sophie and I walked with our heads down, pacing quickly as snow whipped our faces on the second to last day of March.

I made hummus by “just winging it” and over olive oiled. I needed you. I made delicious salad dressing with shallots and lemon and wished I had some orange juice, Melipone style.

I’ve been drinking a cup of orange pekoe each morning with just a splash of milk, imagining you with a cortado.

So it’s April and I’m still reading for Spring. I’ve been reading and loving Torch by Cheryl Strayed and working my way through a new-to-me Melissa Clark cookbook.

Lots of love from here,

T.