So Sad ...

My brother in England decided on a Friday afternoon to fly to Turkey that night and visit for a week. He wanted to meet his newest nephew and get away from the stress of work. Despite his hasty departure, he was still thoughtful enough to ask me if I wanted anything; and without a few days to carefully mull over a list, I blurted out the first things that came to mind at that moment: parmesan cheese. And salami.

In a dramatic drive-by last-minute dash on the way to the airport, he picked up my goods. Two long sticks of salami and a generous wedge of parmesan cheese, both of excellent quality. My brother was going to deliver!

Over the course of a week, my brother, my husband and I nibbled a little on the parmesan and salami as we prepared dinner; other evenings we enjoyed some with an evening nightcap. But we barely made a dent in what my brother had brought, and it looked like I'd be able to enjoy these perfect, salty tastes for weeks to come.

And I did. A slice or two of salami one afternoon; some shaved parmesan to really make my pasta dish complete on a night when I didn't really want to cook a more elaborate meal. (Pasta is my standby go-to dish in emergencies.)

But the other afternoon, I realized the days of the salami were coming to an end. I'd taken the formerly hefty stick out of the fridge, peeled away a little of the skin, and sliced two thick pieces for myself. As my taste buds danced on my tongue, I glanced down at the cutting board and noticed that all that was left of the salami was a tiny stump. So sad.

Rather than save such a small piece for another time, I decided to finish it off then and there. Why postpone something painful? Just like I prefer to rip off a bandaid quickly, I'd attack that last piece of salami, enjoy it, face the sadness of it being gone, and move on, only its memory living on.

With a little difficulty, I scored a small section of the skin and peeled it off; I sliced off as many small pieces as I could, and then held the final bit by its end and gnawed the remaining meat out of its casing much like a beaver might work at a tree trunk. A lovely image, I know. But why waste lovely salami in the name of propriety?