Getting Figgy With It, Or Freedom to JAM

Jam: the sticky, sweet, the smell of cinnamon or ginger, infusing, fruit. Or...jam...

the idiom: pull out your melodies, twiggy fingers and dancing feet.

I could eat the funky fiddling between words all day.

You can make jam or jam. Music or meal -- or both together. But melody mellows a kitchen crushed by brain's rush, and oy, I've been rushing.

Rushing, you know, isn't so much outsides as it is an attitude to outsides; rushing is an inside job. So though are creative jams in the kitchen, and I mean jam in both senses of the word.

I'd prefer to be reading. Being underweight, my brain bellows food between  paragraphs and paged words though, so I end up in the kitchen, with figs from a friend in Western climes where I recently traveled for work, and jam and jams on the mind.

Do you think I could pick at a guitar, cook, and read at the same time?

(The answer is yes, but very unsuccessfully on all counts.)

I hum instead. And since figs are delicate, and I don't want to eat a bushel, already packed and jounced 3,000 luggage-crunched miles in a gulp, I make jam. I jam the jam, because I ad lib it and make the recipe up as I go, and it comes out like this.

 

 

 

,,,Continue reading at Tumbling Gluten Free.