Besides, they turned out too salty.
But even if they had been perfect, as nearly perfect as they were when I made them last time with frost-sweetened brussel sprouts and dill-salmon scrambled eggs.
Except I overcooked them that time.
Even if they had been that good but even better.
Still I do not really love them.
Not love them love them.
But because I had taken a picture of them.
And because it was late.
And because I had set out (in my near-sighted way) to focus up-close (in my near-sighted way) on what I loved.
For a whole month.
Which has sometimes been a generative exercise for me.
The month as a natural and also social convention.
Am I so empty that once I mention a few poems, the stars, the language of dance, then I am done?
Of course I am leaving unsaid the pre-mixed answers.
Of course I do love my family.
A potato is not a bad thing to fill an emptiness.
But honestly I do not love them.
Potatoes. Roasted or not.
And honesty is necessary.
You may not agree.
There are times I doubt it myself.
Honesty is mostly awkward and strange.
I am, at heart, almost always awkward and strange.
Even when I feel I am pulling off a successful appearance as someone at ease, at peace.
Even when I feel I am successfully putting someone else at ease.
Almost always there is an alien soul at my center.
Who cannot speak the language without watching her accent.
Who fits in nowhere.
And if I let myself tell lies, convenient or inconvenient, then this soul clamps her jaws and will not speak.
Will turn her head away and clench her eyes and will say nothing.
It is better to have silence than to have lies.
Lies and lesser truths.
If I love anything it is the moments that this soul speaks.