The taste of paprika on my tongue was Proustian. I’d had enough; left the warehouse stacking job on Friday afternoon and by Sunday was sitting in a small coastal fishing village at the very end of the Pelion pensinsula. No one knew me. I ate the stifado dish the old owner placed, unasked for but welcome nevertheless, in front of me. Spooned a mouthful and there it was again: always the same images. My ex-partner, Val, sitting on the terrace, the stars shining, late at night as she played her passionate strange twisted tunes. Even now, it evokes images of fire and flames. ”
P is for Paprika
“The taste of paprika on my tongue was Proustian. Always, the same images. my ex-partner, Jane, sitting on the veranda, the stars shining, late at night as she played her passionate strange twisted tunes. Even now, it evokes images of fire and flames. ”
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