As soon as he walked through the lounge door, he grinned, all teeth on show, spectacled eyes wide and handed me some Just Brazils. A gift. On a Thursday evening. This guy was cool.
As I took the ceollphane wrapped box, I noticed the two gold rings on his pinkie, different to my dad’s wide banded signet ring. His colourful shirt sleeves were folded back over his jacket. He had a style all of his own. He probably commented how he liked the song that was playing at the time, which made him even cooler.
I unwrapped the box. Oval shaped chocolates were housed in gold dimples. I took one out, popped it in my mouth, held it there. The chocolate slowly melted. I savoured the sweet and silky mouthfeel. Then crunched the creamy nut inside. Heaven.
My favourite pair of jeans broke last week. An unsalvageable rip where the cloth has grown paper thin with years of wear. Immediately I thought of that box of chocolates I was given as a little girl. Of Brazil nuts. Of Peter. The day he made me a princess. And the day he stole my crown. I ordered a new pair of jeans. A different brand. And then I made some pesto. With brazil nuts. To let that little girl know that she is loved. However silly that may sound.
Brazil nut pesto
A cup of Brazil nuts
A bunch of parsley
A bunch of tarragon
1-2 cloves garlic
2 limes, juice and zest
A cup of Pecorino, grated
100-200ml extra virgin olive oil