I’ve been struggling lately with failure. It’s something I don’t like to talk about–I mean, who does? Who wants to openly admit that they’ve failed at something? Take these plum clafoutis for example. I couldn’t resist the golden plums glimmering in the early morning sun at market this past Saturday. They called out to me. Every inch of their soft, supple, sunshine skin called “ravish me.” So I bought a bagful. And I dreamed of clafoutis. And even though I’m not a vegan and I eat eggs all the time, even though I had no real reason beyond this blog to attempt to make a vegan clafoutis, I did. And godalmighty it was a bust. Something like an overly burnt pudding studded with plums.
Who likes to say it? I know I didn’t.
A clafoutis is nothing–just some tofu & sugar & plums–but the rest of my life…right. Every day I feel too young to have to deal with consequences but then I realize, shit, I’m a quarter-century old. If not now, when? When will I buck up and say “I built this castle, sand or stone,” how long to I forgive, move on?
I know I’m speaking in generalities, but the specifics aren’t all that interesting. I’m just learning the salt in regret–the way it seasons and stings.
So I’ll center on tonight–some weird puddinged clafoutis, a glass of local wine, and the stars shining out through an oddly cool July evening. The beauty of failure is that I can pick up and move forward, learn to enjoy life for what it is right now. Right now. And godhelpme if I can’t figure out that small, shining bit.