Blood Orange Orchards & Tongue Kissing

Have you ever smelled a smell so delicious that it brought back an old memory to life? I just sniffed a sniff and was zippied-dipped right back to that unforgettable night in a small town orange orchard.

I was 17 and in love. The kind of dumb love that feels the first lick of an ice cream cone. And fuck, did I want his ice cream cone. Mr. I was 19, 6'2', dark hair, dark skin - and the most delicious, erhm, body you've ever tasted.

I met Mr. I while visiting my Dad in Southern California - a magical little vintage town that I grew up in year before. My parents were separated and I lived with my Mom and two evil sisters in a 1700s springhouse cottage on a sprawling horse farm estate. (Calm down; we were poor as field mice, counting pennies for gas money and cleaning rich people's toilets). So needless to say, a sunshine-saturated week in a popular Hollywood filming-town was, well, like a movie dream.

I met the boy of my dreams at a church event. (Much more of a cult but tbd articles on that). I was sitting shyly amongst a group of church members, wearing my homemade clothes reminiscent of the 1940s when women started wearing pants. And I was wearing my vintage-styled tortoise shell sunglasses from Banana Republic, that I had saved up for with cleaning money. Suffice it to say, I had it goin' on.

And there he was, this movie-star handsome, 6'2" piece of take-me-to-confession. Holy.Jesus. It was a very Bridget Jones moment where she envisioned her wedding in a flash after her boss flirted with her. I saw my future in those deep brown eyes and flashy white smile.

We started writing letters back and forth across 2,000 miles, for the next few months. Each letter more and more intense with our naïve confessions and future plans. Mr. I talked of his church ministry work and his VW restorations with his Dad and I jabbered on about whatever new embroidery piece I was working on - and wouldn't it be pretty if I embroidered my wedding dress with violets? When we would visit one another, we would drive in his little red sports car on winding Ojai roads, listen to Led Zeppelin, and kiss with much more tongue and tenacity than our religious parents preferred.

On one particularly lovely evening, I found my body nearly gravitate in an orange orchard on the outside of town. We drove there with some friends - illegally of course - in an old beat-up mint-green Bronco. We parked in between the rows of trees, and all settled in against the truck, 'drunk' on the intense orange and lemon windy air - mesmerized by the silence. My silence as his arms were wrapped around my waist, our silence as we could feel the youth slip out of our fingers, the orchard's silence swaying to the breeze, the silence of the champagne stars. It was a surreal pinch in time, a little wrinkle in the universe - that whispered, 'This is life. This moment will never happen again. This innocence of your ignorance. All the losses in that have pained you in the years to come - haven't happened yet. None of you will ever be this peaceful, hopeful, and pure. So shut up, and listen to the momentary silence - a gift you will never experience again'.

The world just stopped. Right there. With love in my heart, and hope in my soul. The relationship ended just as fast as it started. A heat that would have just been too combustible but one I will always feel. Their deep midnight kisses may have stopped, but the memories kiss on for eternity.

Today - decades later - sitting in bed and icing my knee - I was transported to that balmy evening of oranges, new love and silent stars. I am a massive fan of the late, remarkable woman, Suzanne Somers and just made her daughter-in-law's Blood Orange, Pistachio and Olive Oil Cake. I was about to devour a slice in bed, when I was overcome with the sweet citrus aroma and new love. Back under the silent stars, inside his big arms, inhaling the air and his warm skin.

If the power of one scent is enough - if only for a moment -to lift 30 years of pain and loss - then I say, let us bathe in that magic. Bake the cake, taste your lovers tongue sweetened with bourbon, drink the champagne stars, feel the orange orchards' teasing kisses on your bare skin. Like I recently told my adorable girlfriend, 'Life is Short. Eat the cake. Go to Paris. Kiss the Guy'. (Although I may have actually said Fuck the Guy).

By the way, if you want to experience a taste of blood orange passion in a bottle, you can buy the magic HERE. The Italian-style cake I made was infused with their INFUSIO Blood Orange Olive Oil. This scrumptious oil also made a decadent facial massage the other night too. The little orange rind granules were a surprisingly sexy lil' exfoliation. BUY IT and tell me what delicious memories it conjures up for you.

And, 'So shut up, and listen to the silence - a momentary gift you will never experience again'.

xoxo,

Rebel Bloom