It's all about timing. Or loosing track of it all while waiting until the sepia-tinted end of an autumn day together. It's the time we poured into an otherwise empty shell made of crust: sugar and flour falling into place like minutes savored in sweet company, like aftertaste. It's the sound those ingredients make when spun, when licked off of fingers as our handmade batter takes on the color of a setting sun. And unlike bean burritos from Taco Bell, what's hidden inside is real and won't let us down. It lifts us up like steam from an open window, the kind we create from within as our excuse to gather around a table before winter arrives. It has our voices baked inside, because one does not eat the whole thing in silence by themselves. No, the recipe calls for people: not their likes of its picture on a social media feed, hashtag foodporn. I'm talking about the delicacy of human presence divided among kindred spirits. It's the air from childhood that we breathe back in when we're home at last, with only so many slices to go around before the timer on the oven rings and it's gone.
It's us, still hungry after the feast ends in the absence of