Give my mom anything that is edible; fruit, vegetable, meat, nuts, fish, whatever. She will create a dish that is absolutely delicious. It doesn't matter that she's never seen the stuff before, let alone cooking it.

Once she bought a dwarf kumquat tree to grace her patio because it was just a pretty little tree. Then one day, she proudly showed me this tree bearing fruits. "Looks like tiny oranges, doesn't it? Almost ready for harvest." she said.

Next time I went to see her, she showed me a jar with thinly sliced kumquats smothered in honey.
"Do you want to try some tea?" She asked with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.
"I used those tiny oranges." She didn't even know how to pronounce kumquat.
"Hmm...," I said.
Well, she is a great cook but there were times she'd given me some medicinal herb teas that tastes just awful, all for the good of my health. But since it was completely submerged in honey, I was willing to try it.

I must say it was the best tea I've ever tasted. The fragrant aroma from the tea was irrisistible and the taste was just heavenly. When I asked how she did it she said,
"Just marinate it in honey for a time. It's very enticing, don't you think?" and there was that rare smile on her face that I used to crave so much as a child.
But then, I wasn't really paying attention because, as usual, my mind wandered onto something else within the next few minutes.

Every so often, I remember that wonderful kumquat tea with a longing that almost borders on heartache. Especially, on one of those freezing winter nights, when a cup of hot tea would be just the thing I need to appease my tired mind and body.

I've tried almost every kind of tea that's available over the years. None of them even remotely comes close. Is it really that simple like she said, "Just marinate it in honey for a time?"

Oh no, I know better. Anytime I try to remake something she made just from my memory, it's never the same.

In my dreams,
I am often lost
in a strange forest.

Sometimes
chasing,
sometimes
being chased.

And then,
the next moment
I am looking down
from above.

Have you been watching?

                     ** The Song of the Beggar **

                                              - Rainer Maria Rilke -
 
          
               I am always going from door to door,

               whether in rain or heat,

               and sometimes I will lay my right ear in

               the palm of my right hand.

               And as I speak my voice seems strange as if

               it were alien to me,
               for I'm not certain whose voice is crying:

               mine or someone else's.

               I cry for a pittance to sustain me.

               The poets cry for more.
 
               In the end I conceal my entire face

               and cover both my eyes;

               there it lies in my hands with all its weight

               and looks as if at rest,

               so no one may think I had no place

               whereupon to lay my head.

Rilke has always been my very favorite poet.  As a teenager, when I was wandering and lost in abyss, his poems transformed my pain into such exquisite dreams.  No one has written verses as beautiful as he, before or after.