The Taste and Smell of Covid

Weekly Writing Prompt:

All sensory experiences (not just taste, touch, sight) can fuel the time-machine that is our life.  Sound and scent are also powerful triggers.  Have you ever, for example, heard a piece of music, a popular song perhaps, and hearing it suddenly shot you back to another time and place when perhaps you first heard it, or heard it often, and thinking about it, you suddenly realized that the particular time and place when you were hearing that music was meaningful to you, or it is now, thinking back on it?   Have you ever smelled a perfume, or perhaps the fragrance of some food cooking, that did the same to you?  If yes, write a piece describing both the occurrence of the trigger and the time remembered. 

This is an interesting assignment; I caught Covid just about one year ago. It robbed me of my sense of smell and taste. From my doctors point of view it will eventually return. Covid caused nerve damage and this type of damage takes years to recover. My poor brain must be working hard to rewire my senses back to normal.  

Lack of ability to smell or taste has not stopped me from eating, I know what my body craves so I eat it. I am keenly aware that what my eyes are seeing are memory recalls of foods I have eaten in the past. That sounds strange but I am recalling the tastes and smells with memory. 

Sometimes I get so frustrated while trying to eat because I know I am not getting the full tasteful benefit of a meal. I confess that in moments like this I throw everything away.  

For many weeks now I have a constant strange smell and taste. It is unidentifiable. I can’t recall any smell or taste like this. In a word it is like spoiled peanut butter. A while back for many weeks everything smelled and tasted like Sulphur. The kind of Sulphur from onions that have been in a container for too long.  

I go to the gym in hopes that by keeping my bones moving and blood circulating these two senses will come back more quickly. It’s just my theory but I will keep trying.  

In the meantime, I will continue to cook and eat and wait for my recovery.

Georgia P.

3.26.21

Time for a Change

Well, I have come up blank for several days now in reference to our recent writing assignment. I had considered borrowing someone else’s life, remembering their experiences instead of my own but decided against this course of action, as being a desperate attempt at inspiration and in poor taste, also, probably a form of identity theft. As I stared blankly at the empty page before me, my eyes wandered to the rectangular lump sitting in my left front pocket. So, I have decided to take the radical action of side-stepping our literary exercise this week and instead drawing my attention to the entropic descent of my wallet into an abysmal black hole of financial chaos! I am not referring to bank accounts or savings but rather the poor condition of that leather file cabinet that sits in my left front pocket with its strong leathery smell of the disintegrating structure, bursting at the seams with all sorts of extremely important papers including my selective service card, just in case the federal government decides to draft 65 year olds! The stitching is in disrepair, the plastic credit card and picture holders are in a translucent rotting heap wrestling with each other, no longer able to properly display their contents. The change purse no longer cooperates with its only assigned task of snapping closed! The bill fold is still there, flopping over like a beaten down boxer no longer able to keep his head up. Inside this dastardly mess the bills are not in any proper order discernible to civilized man.

Inside this leather fighting cage, George Washington is standing on his head, his clones either face the leather exterior or appear to be facing each other involved in a sibling rivalry. They are torn, cracked, or in a state of disrepair. Abraham Lincoln is dog-eared, folded over on the corners and has graffiti on his saddened face in the form of a pair of drawn in eyeglasses as if holding the country together during the civil war were not enough stress for one lifetime, and afterwards being assassinated for his trouble. Alexander Hamilton is suffering from a fissure, scarring his face and has been taped back together at some time in his past with old yellowing worn out tape. It occurs to me that this is not a proper way to honor our Founding Fathers! These Presidents along with Andrew Jackson, courtesy of the twenty dollar bill, who was never very agreeably in life, all covet the position of Ulysses S. Grant’s representation on the $50 bill, in his clean crisp suit along with Benjamin Franklin on the $100. bill, both being treated with respect and saved in a drawer for special occasions like Birthdays, Bar Mitzvahs, Confirmations or Weddings. Thomas Jefferson’s portrait on the obverse of the $2 Silver Certificate bill is rarely seen these days. As soon as this bill is found in circulation it is snapped up for a numismatist’s coin collection. Poor Thomas never gets to circulate and socialize, a monetary pariah locked away in stuffy coin collections.

 President William McKinley on the out of print $500. bill can be viewed at the Smithsonian Institution along with Grover Cleveland on the $1,000, James Madison on the $5,000, Simon P. Chase on the $10,000 and Woodrow Wilson on the $100,000 bill.

 The ladies of prominence in our history have also been completely neglected with the exception of Martha Washington who graced the reverse of a $1. Silver Certificate in the nineteenth century, but still required a chaperon by her husband George Washington. Harriet Tubman is still waiting in the wings to be honored for her courageous work with the Underground Railroad along with many other people who contributed to the tapestry of our history.

 

I digress, it is time to go get a new wallet.

 

Jim March

2021

Color of Sunrise

 

I get up early, 5 am or 6 am and in winter it’s still very dark at that time. Over the past three weeks when I got up it was quite light. However, with daylight savings time it is now dark again at 5 am and 6 am and that is fine with me because I get to see the sunrise every morning and admire how the earth changes its axis. 

Today’s sunrise was very clear with pink and orange and blue gray in the sky with long stringy dingy clouds struggling to pass by. 

Yesterday’s sunrise was light gray with tinges of blue and cloudy and breezy cold with rain sprinkles all day.  

One sunrise last week was made for vampires; foggy, quiet, dense, wispy white fog that is thick and cold. Since I live across the street from a very old cemetery I watched carefully to see if vampires might escape from the decaying mausoleums with broken windows. I didn’t see any but I did see burgundy and green gray geese flying by honking at one another. 

The smaller birds are still sleeping at sunrise. Brown sparrows, black with gold speckle starlings, royal blue shiny crows, golden brown peregrine falcons, multi colored pigeons and white sea gulls do not venture out of their hiding places until there is first light. This is when they gather on the overhead wires outside my window chirping for their breakfast.  

I tear up some white bread and my two cats are at the ready to watch and hope to catch a bird. My cement windowsill attracts quite a few brave birds while others will only eat from the bread on the sidewalk.  

Tomorrow is the Spring Equinox, the yellow sun will rise about 7 am and set around 7 pm which is quite nice for fragrant blooming spring flowers and sun showers, umbrellas being swept around in rain and fresh green buds popping off trees and bushes.  We are heading to summer with sunrises that will be earlier and sunsets that are later.  

As for me I will rise early and glimpse the sky with its rainbow of colors and welcome another warm, bird chirping, cup of tea with milk, full of life day.  

Georgia
3.20.2021

First Signs of Spring

 

It had been a long dreary winter, grey, dull and uneventful as the normal hunkering down of the cold winter months brought most outdoor activities to a halt. This year of course proved to be much quieter; the Pandemic had exponentially increased the lack of activity during the normally dormant season. Usually, humans would be running around town in New York City even at this cold, bone chilling time of year suppressing their normal mammalian instinct to curl up in a ball, insulated in their dens, hibernating with a warm soft wool blanket tucked under their chin and a piping hot beverage to quell their impatient desire for spring. It was a comfortable way to ride out the winter. In the annual frenzy, citizens would forego comfortable accommodations, courageously forging ahead and, preparing for each of the holidays, meanwhile hurrying the season along, wrapped up in their traditions. A dash of cinnamon in one’s coffee, or a wreath on the front door brightened the season, helping to pull Old Man Winter along by the scruff of his neck, depositing him on spring’s doorstep by sheer willpower. People darted in and out of stores carrying an assortment of bags filled with packages for loved ones, fighting their way onto subway cars and compressing their bundles as much as possible to avoid conflict with their fellow New Yorkers, intermittently darting to and fro, capturing warmth where it could be found, even standing over subway vents radiating heat as they waited for buses. Rolls of wrapping paper were difficult to hold, like unwieldy ski poles, no matter how they were secured, breaking free to stick the purchaser in the ribs or poke an eye out were struggled with. A doll for Betty Sue, a heavy fruit cake for Uncle Joe, snowsuits for the twins, spices, cards, stamps, a dizzying array of necessary items were assembled to pull a holiday season together, all of these listed items swirling around in one’s head. It was exhausting even to think about, but this year was different, somber, reserved and quiet, lacking a festive spirit. Now the old bearded codger had been brought down to his knees, a shadow of his former self, hardly able to muster flurries let alone one of his malevolent, vindictive ice storms. He had run his course, he was done, finished, ready to retire. Chloris greeted Old Man Winter helping him up and kindly bringing him to a bench to rest. “Good Day Winter, rest here a while, you look tired.” The old man smiled at her appreciatively. He would soon fade away into the disappearing grey clouds until next year.

 

As I observed this meeting from my window, it was obvious that the transition had begun as Chloris the Spring Nymph, draped in her light flowing pastel covered gown and long hair braided with wild flowers, danced lightly down the street and as she moved along, the grey grass began to turn green below her ballet slippered feet. Not unlike Dorothy on her arrival in Oz, the world was altered, imperceptibly at first, transitioning to Technicolor. You could taste and smell the renewal of the earth. No army of designers or florists at the Macy’s Spring Flower Show could compete with the floral mastery of this Nymph, decorating the world for the Vernal Equinox. The world was a black and white newspaper with the page suddenly turned to the brightly colored photo section. Yellow and purple crocuses gingerly stuck their buds out to peruse the landscape to see if winter was gone, and it was safe to rise. Small buds began to appear on the trees that would soon explode in beautiful colored flowers, flirting and beckoning bees and hummingbirds to stop by for a snack. Buds were stirring as shoots prepared to launch from the ground. Turtle doves and squirrels discussed how to decorate their nests, like humans picking out curtains. The smell of fresh vegetation permeated the air. I reached out the window to touch an infant tree leaf smooth on its face and rough on its jagged edges, supple, moist and fresh to the touch. I made a mental note to wash the window, thereby washing away another winter. Spring was awakening and it would be a well-remembered and appreciated season.

 

Jim

March 2021

A Moment in Time

 

The excitement was building as cyclists as far as the eye could see had invaded Church Street. Blocks ahead the early risers were mixed in with the elite cyclists at the forefront of the Five Borough Bike Tour, while far behind the procrastinators filed into the ever lengthening line snaking down to the World Trade Center. Gears were lubricated, helmets adjusted and energy bars consumed with coffee as the hoard of cyclists prepared for the annual trek through the five boroughs of N.Y.C. on their trusty steeds. Groups from out of town, other states and even other countries had invented various props to stay together in the massive crowd of 32,000 riders. All sorts of crazy horns, flags, balloons and contraptions were secured to the tops of each member’s helmet all identical within each group and towering above helmeted riders to be spotted in the massive crowds. Hundreds of volunteers were ready to man the rest stops along the way, handing out countless bottles of water, energy bars, apples, oranges and mountains of peanut butter sandwiches to be washed down with a river of energy drinks. Everyone was ready for a great ride on a beautiful May morning.

A horn was blown and minutes later the chain reaction of movement reached my section as we started to roll down the street. Crowds of spectators cheered from the sidelines as we passed Mayor Bloomberg accompanied by the boisterous Cousin Brucie of radio fame, yelling and waving to the crowd. Church Street turned into Sixth Avenue and we came to a halt at 56^th Street to allow the Israeli Day Parade cross our path. After a little while we entered Central Park, that green oasis of wonderfulness sandwiched between the skyscrapers of Manhattan like lettuce and tuna on a New York bagel. Now we made good time as the park was blocked off from cars for the duration of the tour. Some impatient riders snaked dangerously through the crowd, cutting other riders off and taking unnecessary chances as if they were in the Tour de France. Most people were there to check an event off their bucket list and were respectful of their fellow riders. After passing the Harlem Meer we exited the park onto Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard heading north to make a right onto 125^th Street. Again, we were greeted by cheering crowds. Next, we headed over the Willis Avenue Bridge and into the Bronx, where we were greeted warmly. After a quick sprint through a few streets in the Bronx we ascended the Third Avenue Bridge returning to Manhattan via the F.D.R. Drive, also blocked from automobiles. Down the Drive we flew avoiding any potholes that the repair crews had missed in preparation for our ride. Yelling like school children we screamed as we plunged into tunnels from overpasses that arched over the F.D.R. listening to our echoes and exiting finally onto 60^th Street headed west to make a left turn on Second Avenue. Now the horde of pedalers moved onto the Queensboro Bridge and crossed its expanse into the borough of Queens, landing in Long Island City on our way to Astoria.

I had skipped the rest stop in Harlem on Pleasant Avenue by Rao’s but by now I was getting hungry and headed to the Astoria Park Stop for some refreshments. Energy bars brimming with nuts and honey, crisp red apples and succulent oranges were consumed ravenously while pockets were stuffed with goodies for the long ride till the next stop. Peanut Butter and Jelly had metamorphosed into a delectable delicacy.  There were stations for bike repairs and medical personnel for those who had been injured or hadn’t trained sufficiently for the event. Back in Long Island City, a rest stop at the Big Alice power plant cooked hamburgers and frankfurters, but I sped past this stop heading for the Pulaski Bridge and into Greenpoint, Brooklyn. The crowds were massive here and very enthusiastic, cheering on the riders who had started to feel fatigued by the long ride. We snaked through the narrow crowded streets encouraged by the crowd.

Our next highway ride was the Brooklyn Queens Expressway West which had also been cordoned off for our use. The pace picked up as we flew past Red Hook and on our way to Bay Ridge and our final rest stop in Cannon Ball Park. As the participants rested and nourished themselves, they stared at the massive Verrazano Bridge before them, the longest suspension bridge at that time. Gathering our courage and remaining strength, off we went, climbing the massive structure for an unforgettable view of the harbor, far superior to that seen while speeding across in a car. At the center of the span we rode across the highest part of the bridge, and plummeted down the far side , the strong winds pushing us along as we coasted into Fort Wadsworth, Staten Island for the conclusion of our adventure. The old fort had been invaded by thousands of cyclists. Many of the companies whom had sponsored the event were present, giving away company labeled swag. Food trucks were available to purchase meals, first aid stations were busy giving medical aid; massages were available and a tented area served beer and soft drinks. Thankfully I had parked my car on a residential street in the neighborhood the night before, warned by a friend whom had ridden the tour previously that the ride on the ferry and subway would be arduous after the long day. It was a great day, a moment in time that I didn’t wish to end and would have enjoyed repeating over and over again.

 

Jim

March, 2021

My Art

 My art comes from a place beyond the worried, fretful, frightened me. It’s a place of great vastness where all is aligned for my greatest and highest good and an open path. 

My art comes from energy, wholeness and always forward moving, unexplainable, undeniable, untouched by the low-level mundane affairs of most days. 

Yet always there as my constant companion, friend and beloved.  

My art is often pushed aside by distractions I have no control over yet it never abandons me.  

This art is who I am, always was, always will be, it is in my bones.  

I love my art. It never ends, I live it every day. I show up at my table every day to feel, sometimes just for a moment, grounded, clear minded, creative and real.

Georgia
March 2021

Potluck

 

Food was her language, her poetry.  It didn’t have to be fancy or complicated, but it had to come from the soul and speak to the people who ate it.  Something as commonplace as chicken was perfect because it was relatively inexpensive and readily available.  There were hundreds of ways to prepare and serve it.  Since about a month after this lockdown commenced, she’d been documenting her recipes and sharing them with friends and relatives.  The unforeseen result was that she was now also on the receiving end and the word was spreading.  To her surprise there were many people asking her to demonstrate how to create these meals from her own kitchen.

The ironic thing was that she really didn’t love chicken.  She discovered that when it came to poultry her taste buds were in the minority.  She selected it for its widespread and universal appeal.  It was a popular choice for both lunch and dinner due to economy and versatility.

The most undeniable thing about chicken was how multicultural a main dish it was.  What made it intriguing was the overwhelming amount of ingredients including spices, sauces, condiments, herbs, fruits and vegetables that were used in combination with it whether roasting, frying, grilling, stewing or making soup from it.  Then there’s what one can do with the leftovers:  croquettes, salads, tacos, rice, sandwiches and more.  As she posted the last episode of this season and breathed a sigh of relief, she knew she’d saved the best for last - eggs – the wonder food!

It had been fun, but she hadn’t expected it to be so much work and the fans so intense.  It was something to do when everyone was stuck indoors but she never imagined it would last a year.

“It all started as a lark.  I began creating projects to keep busy and decided to share them online.  My first demonstration was decoupage.  I realized it was inspiring some people to begin similar projects.  I even tried watercolor and Ikebana arrangements and all of those endeavors were met with a surprising amount of interest but food trumps all of them.

Now I realize the reason for the continued success of these podcasts stems from a basic need we, humans, have to communicate and interact with one another.  Mothers and their children did a lot to promote the sessions and when I announced that I’d no longer be doing them, I was approached by several members of this online community wanting to take it over.  So, I am very happy to hand the reins over and have every confidence that it will continue to grow by leaps and bounds.

 

Yvonne A.

March 2021

 

Night Sounds

 

The ride up the Thruway had been quick, driving through the night and arriving at Indian Lake in the early hours of Tuesday morning. As I hiked down the trail, I met friends bugging out after the long Labor Day weekend. They wished me well but offered their unsolicited opinion that wilderness camping alone was not a good idea. I reassured them that I would be careful. The hike down from the parking area to the lake was about two miles of rough trail and was quite remote, except on weekends.

 Upon arrival at the lake and after picking a tent site, I went right to work setting up the tent, then building up a fire pit and canvassing for wood. By the time I started to get fatigued most of the days’ work was done. Now I could enjoy the beauty of Indian Lake with its serene beautiful landscape and placid waters. I pulled my tree stump up to the fireplace to sit and lit the kindling that I had collected, starting to build the fire for cooking and the evening’s relaxation. Late afternoon slowly turned into dusk. The progression to larger sticks evolved to branches, then small limbs and finally to logs, above which I rested my grill on the rocks of the fire pit stuffing tinfoil wrapped potatoes into the red hot embers and placing a steak on the perimeter of the now blazing fire. The logs whistled and sputtered releasing trapped gases in the wood while the steak sizzled on the perimeter of the blazing inferno. Now and then little explosions occurred as logs shifted and settled, making themselves comfortable. An occasional spark shot up to the heavens and extinguished itself, as if Mother Nature were putting on a firework show. Geese could be heard honking overhead while maintaining their curious V-formation, a method copied by professional cyclists to save energy while riding in the slip-stream of the strongest rider. Each goose offered his opinion on which direction to head on their sojourn south. Fireflies occasionally lit up while bees whizzed by attracted to my steak sauce, buzzing around its sweet scent. Leaves crackled underfoot as chipmunks and squirrels scampered through the woods questioning why a human was still here so long past checkout time after the long weekend.

 My potatoes were retrieved from the glowing embers, happy to be out of the inferno and were reunited with the steak in my mess kit for as fine a dining experience as one could expect under the rustic circumstances. After dinner I put on a pot of water to boil, shoveling in a liberal amount of hot cocoa, heavy cream and a bottle of Grand Mariner. The result was a wonderful potion which I enjoyed immensely as I watched the stars turn on in the night sky, uninhibited by the light pollution and smog of city life. Red, blue and white diamonds twinkled and winked at me on the black background as the translucent Milky Way weaved through this display. The night closed around my campfire and I could hear a coyote wailing its nightly roll-call to make sure all members of their troupe were safe and well. An owl hooted in the trees above.

 The night grew still as many animals settled in when suddenly I heard footsteps off to my right side, then they stopped. Something or someone was observing me, probably attracted by the light of the fire or the smell of the cooking. A few minutes later the steps could be heard in front and to my right then to my left and then they stopped again. Something or someone was circling my campsite.

 The imagination can be a wonderful companion providing entertainment in uneventful times, but in this case, it was a curse, as all sorts of curiosity beasts revealed themselves in my mind’s eye hovering outside in the pitch black darkness. After a while the liqueur and hot cocoa took its effect and I forgot the footsteps of the black bear, bobcat, mountain lion or whatever was out there. By chance I happened to look down at my scuffed up boots and there I found my innocuous predator, a small skunk which had nestled itself between my foot and the hot stones of the pit to share the heat of the fireplace. I was relieved at its identity but careful not to make any sudden movements and receive a dose of its questionable perfume, never to be confused with Chanel Number Five. After a long while I glanced down again to look at my companion but it had vanished. It had been a long day having driven through the previous night along with all of the day’s activities, so I turned in to my tent curling up, not unlike the skunk for a well-deserved rest.

 

Jim

March 2021

Staten Island

 New York City consists of five counties: New York, Kings, Bronx, Queens and Richmond. The latter is more commonly called Staten Island. The island was first sighted by Giovanni da Verrazano in 1524 when it was mostly populated by Native Americans, until about 1630 when the Dutch came to the island and named it Staaten Eylandt in honor of the Dutch parliament known as Staten-Generaal. When the English took over, the name was anglicized to Staten Island.

Until I retired I practiced law for over fifty years and handled cases in all of New York City counties including what I called Staten Island. I enjoyed it when I had a case in the Spring that required me to be in Staten Island by 9 A. M. I would take the Island ferry from the Battery tip of Manhattan. I seated my self looking at the Manhattan skyline and the sun shining on the rippling waters while I had a shoe shine person who worked the ferry, do my shoes. I recall one such time, I was seated facing a group of about ten young boys whom I asked what they were doing on the ferry so early? One boy replied they were all going to a museum to see Native American exhibits. I told them I hoped they had a good time and extended my hand to shake his. He responded by clutching my hand and when I let go, each of the other youngsters held out their hands, which as the ferry neared the Island dock. I clutched each one. The courthouse I needed was within walking distance from the ferry dock and walking there I felt I had experienced a great way to begin a day’s work.

Ben Haber

March 2021

Sounds of the Night

 Sometimes I wake up during the night, two o’clock or three o’clock. The first thing I am aware of is the sound of the refrigerator condenser which is quite loud in the silence of the night.   

The condenser goes on and off in a rhythmic swing working hard to keep the refrigerator working efficiently.  

So, when I am tossing and turning trying to get back to sleep, I hear the condenser doing its job. The condenser stays on for about 2 minutes and off for four minutes.  

During these four minutes the silence slices through the air except for the occasional conversation leaking through the thin old walls of this one-hundred-year-old building.  

During these four minutes I can ask important questions to my inner self and get answers.  

During these four minutes my ears hear walking souls both living and dead.  

During these four minutes my two cats are fast asleep next to me heavily breathing. 

During these four minutes there is profound peace that allows me to fall back to sleep before the condenser kicks in again.  

Sometimes I wake up during the night, I know what to expect and I am unafraid of the silence.

Georgia P.

3.3.2021

Pearly

 

Dancing pearly whites descending from the sky

Twirling to the tune of the wind

Creating an enticing masterpiece

Sent from heaven

Sitting on the trees

Creating cotton balls

And forming an angelic white cover on the streets

Cristina Infante

Feb. 2021

Divine Order

 The sight of blood made Matthew pass out.  Out cold.  Every time.  He didn’t mean to miss the birth of his child, but he couldn’t help it.  One red drop and bang, he was on the floor.  Fatherhood was going to be interesting.  He woke up to his wife peering at him while his new baby nursed at her breast.  He was in the hospital bed directly across from them and the sight of his darling girl holding his first-born son in her arms brought tears of joy to his eyes.  This day had arrived.  He was a father and he was both over-joyed and terrified.

 “What kind of dad will I be?” he had asked his mother when he told her the news of his wife’s pregnancy.  

 “That’s up to you Son,” she said with her mouth and her eyes.  “Just as I did my best and still made plenty of mistakes, so will you, but if you are a good husband to the mother of your son and she is a loving wife to his dad then yours will be a strong and happy home and that is where all children thrive and want to be.  Sadly, we’ve been lied to about the true value of a family and how important marriage is to children.  Our world is based on exactly what I am telling you right now:  A man and a woman form a union, from their union life issues and blossoms.  Soon and very soon things come against this divine order but you must protect and guard it with your life! Got that?”

Yvonne A.
Feb. 2021