my own Ithaca

start time: 9:05 am

I recently read C.P. Cavafy's poem, Ithaca, in a creative writing class. As an assignment, we were asked to write about our own Ithaca, about returning home after learning from the journey of life.

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Young Emily did not know what she was getting herself into (or what she was putting into herself, for that matter) when she had that first bite of thai noodles. The sweetness and unfamiliar spice, with a hint of peanut and a scramble of egg, immediately altered her perception of taste. Soon her taste buds would no longer tolerate the standard spaghetti and sauce, or the grilled chicken and broccoli, but demanded something different.

So she set out, traveling far and wide, to discover what her mouth had been craving. She relished in the coconut cream of curries and humble lentils, in saffron yellow paellas and the thick red of fresh jams. The world was to be seen, not of nations and markets, but of pomegranates and eggplants, of herbs and greens, and she began to note her travels by the tastes and smells each city would bring. Geneva was rich with fondues of chocolates and cheese; Aleppo studded with roasted pistachios; Shanghai calmed by tiny cups of tea; and Cairo congested with the steams and sizzles of street meats. Occasionally she met a sweet or a dip she disliked, but she did not allow this minor disagreement to disrupt the completion of her quest for the mouth’s best.

And then, some time later, on a holiday’s eve, she realized what she had been longing for. For even though she sought refuge in the colorful concoctions of fantastic foods, and had learned from the most exotic of epicures, it was the modest, homemade pie that warmed her heart. Simple—sugared and spiced with only cinnamon and a dash of salt—served with a single scoop of vanilla cream, was what she loved most.

end time: 10:23 am