Mooncakes and Barro

Mooncakes and Barro. The gold-colored box contained mooncakes—a gift, more than once, over the years—and always at that same time, mid-Autumn, when a full moon comes up through the eucalyptus branches, and people gather together. Many cultures seem to celebrate this season, just before the year begins to wane—a certain fullness which might last forever. Harvest, good spirits, a sense of plenty. The students would bring them to class in the evening—a family thing—sometimes received from relatives, who lugged boxes of them on return from China, and of course a social occasion, always to be shared. I do like mooncakes—how not?—but what I liked even more was the enthusiasm with which they were offered. As if something essential—even if very simple—were at hand. You took a bite—watching your companions do the same. Smiles, nodding of heads. Where the sense of taste stands in for what my poet friend, Leonard Nathan, once called lost distance—a universe of time…

The plates alongside. barro, made from the clay of México, and brought in filled with delicacies cooked up for one of our pachangas—the parties at the end of the México class. As if their preparation—in a student apartment kitchen, or on a free stove at Kingman—required the right dishes, too— a Oaxaca fish plate, or the green duck on black glaze. These two were left behind, at the end of one or another evening. Maybe everyone drank a bit too much—Don Julio--or maybe they were simply forgotten—and now they’re here, tucked onto my shelf, years later, with their own memories hidden inside.

I think Lois, in the grad office will appreciate—at least they have her name on them for now. She always organizes the best events for new grads, takes care to put things out nicely. And in any case, they belong here, in Wurster—where they were shared before…


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