Magoņu sēkliņas, plīstoši trauki /// Poppy seeds, breaking dishes

Tētis šovakar atbrauca no laukiem un atveda lielu maisu svaigu piparmētru, maisiņu kartupeļu un vecāsmammas ceptu kanēļmaizi un magoņu sēkliņu maizi. Mēs ar Lāsmu gājām lejā pēc mantām, bija jau tumšs un vēss, šaubīgais agra rudens vējš, bet bija patīkami, ka kājas bija plikas. Es negaidīju, ka tētis būs lidostas izskatā, lavandas kreklā un pelēkā žaketē, viņš līdzīgos toņos un apģērba gabalos reiz atgriezās no lidostas, un man šķita tik ļoti labi, tieši tā, kā vajadzētu izskatīties lidojumu laikā.

Piparmētras sparīgi smaržoja, un es sapriecājos. Aizvakar es gribēju, kaut būtu pašlasīta piparmētru tēja, ko dzert. Piparmētras un arbūzs vislabākie ir tad, kad ir tumšs.

Es dzēru piparmētru tēju, un vēlāk es gribēju pienu pie vecāsmammas maizēm, bet drusciņ, un es sameklēju mazo trauciņu. Man ir vairākas mazītiņas pialiņas, kurās ietilpst apmēram 50 ml, tieši tādām reizēm, kad gribas tikai drusciņ vai arī no maziem traukiem. Man patīk mazi trauki. Es paņēmu rokās balto trauciņu ar rozā rozēm, bet zibenīgā ātrumā viņš man izslīdēja no rokām, virzījās taisni uz priekšu, ietriecās sienā, pārplīsa uz pusēm un nokrita uz grīdas. Es nesaprotu, kā tas varēja atgadīties. Atkal man saplīsa trauks. Esmu ievērojusi, ka parasti plīst mani trauki, un plēšam mēs viņus uz maiņām ar kaķiem. Ēriks tikai tāpēc, ka viņš ir neveikls vai arī mūsu trajektorijas krustojas. Likijam reizēm ļoti patīk ar savu ķepiņu nogrūst zemē traukus un noskatīties to daiļajā kritienā. Karotes daudz necieš arī no 12 lidojumiem, bet dažas krūzes nespēj paciest pat vienu. Man trauki plīst, kad es viņus kaut kur muļķīgi atsitu, vai arī viņi, kā šajā reizē, skrien sienā. Man īstenībā ir ļoti žēl, jo man visvairāk patīk glīti trauki, bet diemžēl mani trauki plīst visbiežāk.

Vēl palikušas tādi paši 3 trauciņi. Tas nozīmē, ka tētim vairs neviens tāds nepienākas. Viņam jau nemaz nepatīk tik mazi trauki. Viņš vienreiz, meklēdams kādu pierasta izmēra bļodu, pukojās, kas te par visādiem maziem trauciņiem ir.

Atkal magones. It kā es tikpat labi varētu teikt, atkal tie kartupeļi, bet, nē, noteikti nē, magonēm ir cita nozīmīguma pakāpe.
Gandrīz pirms nedēļas mēs ar Katrīnu staigājām pa Stockmann, mums tur patīk pastaigāties, glīti trauki, dažreiz arī neiedomājami derdzīgi govju dekori parūkās, bet parasti jau tikai servīzes ar rozēm, un, ja paveicas, bez taureņiem. Mēs noklīdām gar kafejnīcu un mazliet apcerējām to, cik tur reizēm ir patīkami sēdēt, stiklotas sienas un nepārprotama pilsētvide aiz loga. Un iekšā koši ēdieni uz interjera baltā fona, tā tur izskatās. Vairāk ziema un vēls rudens nekā pavasarīgs gaišums, un ir skaidrs, ka ļoti daudz kas nav kārtībā, bet tajā kafejnīcā tās lietas zaudē savas bezcerības neizturamību.
Mēs nolēmām ieiet iekšā, tāds piemērots brīdis, kad ārā lietains un nokavēta filma par karalieni. Katrīna stāstīja par to, cik tur lieliskas kūkas, un viņai bija taisnība, kūkas izskatījās rosinoši. Arī citi deserti bija burvīgi, krāsaini augļu trauciņi iemūrēti ledus lauskās, glīti pārlocītas pankūkas un dažādu nokrāsu ievārījumi, patiešām patīkami. Man liekas, viena pati es nebūtu nonākusi līdz kūkai, es bieži domāju, cik tas ir vareni, kad kāds ietekmē patīkamā veidā. Tas varbūt nav nemaz slikti, ka es tik ļoti ietekmējos no Katrīnas; ja es kādu satieku, tad jau es gribu just ietekmi un pārmaiņas.
Kūku stendā bija mājīga ābolu kūka, iespaidīga šokolādes kūka ("ES ESMU ŠOKOLĀDES KŪKA, JA!" tipa kūka), toņos patīkamas siera un ogu kūkas un vēl dažas citas. Un tur bija magoņu kūka, es nekad nebiju tādu redzējusi. Nu tā, ka vispār nekur.
Mēs sēdējām pie stiklotas loga sienas, tā ir riktīgi forša vieta, kur dzert kafiju, un mums bija karsti dzērieni, un man bija magoņu kūka. Tāda kūka, kurai ir apmēram 4 cm biezs magoņu pildījums. Maģiski, es zinu. Mēs ar Katrīnu ļoti daudz viena otrai piekritām (bet tā noteikti nav, ka mēs tikai piekrītam viena otrai un jūsmojam par vienām un tām pašām lietām; Katrīna mezglo un viņai patīk batikojumi, piemēram), mūsu sarunām pat bija tēma, mēs runājām par draudzību, un Katrīna izmeta apzināti mulsinošas piezīmes, vairākas pēc kārtas. Pēc kārtas ir visgrūtāk.
Tā, kūka, ak, viņa bija lieliska. Man garšoja, bet es arī novirzīju daudz no savas agrākās magoņu ēšanas pieredzes. Prustam ir pilnīga taisnība, un es nezinu, cik bieži ir iespējams tvert kādu jaunu, foršu lietu pašu par sevi, bez atmiņu šķaidījuma. Man kādreiz patika ēst no burciņas magoņu sēkliņas ar karoti, un magoņu smalkmaizītes ar šokolādi man šķita visu smalkmaizīšu esence.

Vissabiezinātākie mirkļi par magonēm un paši par sevi ir tie, kad es apmēram 5 gadu vecumā laukos stāvu uz lauka un ēdu magoņu sēkliņas. Ir vasaras beigas, varbūt jau sākas rudens, un es stāvu starp vagām rudens drēbēs. Ir viegla, izbijusi spilgta saule, kuras spožums tagad ir matēts un reizēm pagaist pavisam, un tas ir pareizi. Es eju gar vagām un apstājos pie pelēkbrūnām, sažuvušām magoņu galviņām, kuras uz savu roku aug starp zirnīšiem, burkāniem un pētersīļiem. Vasarā viņas bija violetām, plānām ziedlapiņām, un katram ziedam bija vismaz divu nokrāsu violetums. Es noplūcu magones galviņu, attaisu vaļā, viņa ir sausa un asa, un ieberu visas magones mutē. Kamēr mutē birst magones, es redzu debesis, lai gan pārāk uz tām neskatos, un vēl ir tā īsā, klusā birstošu magoņu skaņa. Viņas ir tik sīciņas, un ir diezgan nomierinoši dzirdēt, kā viņas saskaras un pārvietojas. Ja pirms magones iztukšošanas pakratīja galviņu, skaņa bija uzstājīgāka. Un tad es stāvēju uz lauka ar tukšu magoni rokās, skatījos ceļa vizienā, un bija pilnīgi skaidrs, ka būs rudens.
Un magoņu kūka vasaras beigās, tas bija par to pašu.

^^^^^

Tonight dad got back from the countryside and took a huge bag full of fresh peppermint, bag of potatoes, and cinnamon and poppy seed rolls made by grandma with him. Lasma and I went down to pick up some things, it was dark already and chilly, the dubious wind of early autumn, it felt pleasantly to be barefoot though. I didn't expect dad to have airport look, lavender shirt and grey jacket. Once a while back he came back from airport in similar shades and pieces of clothing, and I found that outfit greatly looking, that was the way one should to look like at airport.
Peppermint's scent was strong, I was delighted by it. The day before yesterday I wished I had self picked peppermint tea to drink. Peppermint and watermelon are the best when it's dark outside.

I was drinking peppermint tea, and then later when I was about to taste grandma's poppy seed rolls, I wanted to have a little of milk, but just a little. Therefore I had to find a tiny cup. I've got several like tiny phials, I don't think I can pour more than 50 ml in them. They're perfect for occasions when you wish just a little, or from small cups. I like small dishes. I took the small phial-like cup with pink rose print, I was holding it in my hand until it slipped out of my fingers at lightning speed, heading straight forward the blush wall. It collided, broke into two pieces and fell on the ground. I don't get how could it possibly happen. A dish of mine broke again. I've noticed that usually they are my dishes that break, and it's either me or cats who helps out. Eriks does this only because of his clumsiness, or our trajectories cross. Likijs sometimes adores to push down a mug with his elegant paw and watch its beautiful fall. Spoons don't suffer much even from 12 landings, while some mugs and cups can't endure even one. I break dishes, when I beat them somehow in a silly way, or as this time, when they fly into walls. It's a pity actually, as I appreciate pretty crockery the most, but they are my dishes that break the most.
There are still 3 more identical phials left. Which means dad has no more right to one of them. He doesn't appreciate tiny dishes anyways. Once, whilst looking for a habitual sized bowl, he grumbled, what are all those petty dishes for.

Poppy seeds again. I might say, oh, there come potatoes again, but I certainly can't, no, poppy seeds have a whole different level of importance.
Almost a week ago Katrina and I were strolling in Stockmann shopping mall. We like to stroll there, beautiful crockery, sometimes unbelievably hideous decors of cows in wigs, still usually it's just rose printed sets, if you get lucky - with no butterflies on them. We passed the café and reflected a little on how pleasantly it was to sit there, glass walls and unmistakable city scene behind the windows. And inside bright food on white interior, that's what it looks like there. More winter and late autumn than springy brightness, and although it's clear that a lot of things aren't right, in that cafe they lose some of their desperate unbearableness.
We decided to step in. The moment when it was raining on the street and movie about a queen was missed, was right for it. Katrina was telling what great cakes they used to have, and she was right, the cakes looked promising. Also other desserts were adorable, colorful fruit desserts on ice, carefully folded pancakes and jams in different shades, nice indeed. I don't think I would have chosen to have a cake by myself. I often think how great is that, when someone else influences in a pleasant way. Katrina's influence on me couldn't be any harm; if I meet someone, then I do want to feel some difference and modifications in states I am in.
On the cake stand there were homey apple cake, impressive chocolate cake ("I AM CHOCOLATE CAKE, SEE!" kind of cake), cheese and berry cakes, agreeable in colours, and some more. And there was poppy seed cake, I had never seen one like this before. Like, nowhere at all.
We were sitting next to a glass wall, that's an awesome place to drink coffee, and we were having hot drinks, and I had my poppy seed cake. It had around 4 cm thick poppy seed filling. Magic, I know. Katrina and me, we agreed on heaps of things (for all that it's completely wrong to deem that Katrina and I agree on everything and that we admire the same things; Katrina has lately been into macramé and finds tie-dying pretty, for example), there was even a topic in our conversation, we were talking about friendship, and Katrina consciously threw away confusing remarks, one after another. One after another is the most difficult.
That cake, oh, it was awesome. I liked its taste, but I also channeled quite a lot of past experiences of eating poppy seeds. Proust is absolutely right, and I'm not sure how often is it possible at all to capture a new, fresh thing by itself, without any dilution of memories. I used to like eating poppy seeds from jar with spoon, and poppy seed rolls with chocolate were the very essence of pastry for me.

The most dense moments about poppies and moments per se are those, when at the age of 5 I stand on the field in the countryside and eat poppy seeds. It's the end of summer, maybe the autumn is already there, and I stand between furrows in autumn clothes. The sunlight is light, it's the former bright sun, whose brilliance is now mat and occasionally vanishes entirely, and it's right. I walk along the furrows and pause at greyish brown, wizened poppy-heads, which grow among the peas, carrots and parsley by their own choice. In summer their petals were violet and gauzy, and every flower had at least two different shades, violet, lilac, purple. I pick the poppy-head, open it, it's dry and sharp, and I pour all the seeds into my mouth. While poppy-seeds are filling my mouth, I see the sky, although I don't watch them too much, and then there is the brief, quiet sound of pouring seeds. They're so teeny weeny, and it feels quite sedative to hear them touch and move. If I shook the poppy-head before emptying it, the sound was more persistent and stronger. And I was standing there on the field holding an empty poppy-head, looking towards the road, and it was absolutely clear that autumn was coming.
Poppy seed cake in the end of summer, it's also about the same.