Dalchini. Cinnamon, as most would know it.
It’s a spice I frequent, one I find really quite beautiful.
It’s aromatic, full of flavour.
Conducive of warmth.
It’s a food that tastes as it smells, and smells as it tastes.
The spice brings not one, but many different qualities.
A party on your palette – a hearty warmth, paired with a gnarly kick, and a spicy sweetness.
I sprinkle some cinnamon on my oatmeal everyday, and occasionally on my yogurt. The quality of the spice that’s become most relevant to me is it’s diversity.
Everyday, it tastes slightly different. Some days I perceive larger feelings of the heat, while others it’s the sweetness that stands out to me.
As I reflect, it’s probable that the change in perception is on me. I extract from it, what I need. Perhaps the days I seek out sweetness, there it lies in my cinnamon.
Either way, before I digress into the tangential perception of flavour, I felt inclined to reflect on the spice I use everyday. The one I look forward to sprinkling on my oatmeal each morning, experiencing the aroma as it’s carried up by the smoke of my burning hot oatmeal.
I think it’s important to express gratitude for small things, like cinnamon, because it’s the small things that make life worth living – maybe? Perhaps? After all, life is that which has no answer, and is that which needs no question. I’m just an observer, I don’t have any answers.