A. is back from Lisbon with a camera full of snapshots (mostly pork, it turns out) and a suitcase stuffed with bombons de higo: Portuguese chocolate-dipped figs.
I waited for a decadent moment, thinking there might be one in my life. But after a breakneck week that stretched to a 10 pm Thursday evening in the office and rolled through a breakfastless Friday noon, I found myself in a rare and day-lighted quiet spell at home. The little bombon winked at a bottle of port.
And there we were, the bombon and I: listless, leaning on the kitchen counter, sucking jeweled seeds from a truffled fig and fortified wine. These are the after-dinner hard stops of culinary punctuation, but in the middle of the afternoon and at the cusp of the weekend, they made beautiful commas: little turning points and spaces to catch one’s breath.