If I were to pick an apple, I’d hope to pick one like a Crispin. I’d hope to pick a Crispin who’s whole, quartered into four, entertained my eyes with its rapid browning, revealing its natural sweetness.
I’d hope to pick an apple, like a Crispin, worthy to be among the contents of an apple crisp, whose presence at a Sunday dinner is to be the protagonist of grandmas’ dessert. Slices turn into softened chunks as chocolate morsels temper their way through layers of flour and fruit, until both come undone.
This coffee is grandma’s apple chocolate crisp. My nose smells both, as if they are like the product of a marriage, two becoming one. I pour and I sip, pour and I sip, with only one wonder, how many pours of this St.Ali can I savor before there is no more.
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