A few times I’ve been having a conversation and the olive oil ice cream that I tried a year ago has come to my mind. Yesterday I was once again trying to explain how the ice cream tasted. I always say that right when I put it in my mouth I didn’t taste anything but only felt the texture of the ice cream and the next second my mouth was filled with the taste of olive oil but frozen. I have wondered why my brain did not taste the flavour from the very beginning and I think it is because the sight of the ice cream and the coldness makes your mind expect something sweet or at least familiar: strawberry, cookies and cream, almond, vanilla, chocolate, lemon etc…so the first instant the brain does not even recognise that such white looking ice cream tastes like what you put in salads or to fry your steak. Now that I think about it I wish I had tried the ice cream without knowing which flavour it was.
I never felt like writing about the olive oil ice cream. However, I somehow wanted to share my experience in the subway last week.
I was riding in the subway late on a weekday. I was exhausted and sat with my eyes half closed. The person next to me stood up and exited the train so a guy who was standing sat. The dude seemed to me average looking. He was wearing a large white t-shirt, Timberland boots, big Van Dutch jeans and those kinds of phones which I don’t like that cling to your ear. I barely saw some bags he was carrying with pieces of cloth inside. Something about the guy was making me curious. If at that precise instant I had had to guess what he did for a living I would have said a driver for a moving company, or a mechanic, or maintenance worker at a factory. My stop was about to come and suddenly he takes from his bag a big binder (I knew something was coming); he opens it and starts passing white pages in plastic covers with these amazing sketches of women’s clothes designs: long night dresses, skirts, coats, even a wedding dress. The drawings were so delicate and perfect. He came to the last pages and I was impressed by these two sketches of female faces, so pretty. He took one out of the plastic sheet and with a pencil continued the drawing. I was mad that my stop had finally come and I had to leave; I could have stayed there watching him draw all night and I would have probably done so if it had not been so late.
Let our mouths get filled with the unexpected.