Dear Nutmeg

Dear Nutmeg,

What a complicated little food you are. Not really a nut, not quite an herb, nor a pit or stone as you appear, but a kernel. Sadly, it was not so long ago that I knew you only as muted khaki dust, added to pumpkin pie or sprinkled over eggnog. In my ignorance, you rarely crossed my mind each year until November rolled around. But in time my love for you has grown so deep and important, it seems only fitting that we really got to know each other on my honeymoon in Grenada.

For truly, the Caribbean island of Grenada is one of your greatest admirers (and exporters, along with Indonesia), even putting your image on their flag. And it was here that two newlyweds found themselves, deep in the rain forest, machete in hand. We clumsily navigated over wet tree roots, looking for waterfalls and following a man named Chicken down a mere suggestion of a path--this was where we discovered you. High in the treetops, bursting from the middle of a simple yellow fruit--mature and suddenly too big to be contained by fruit flesh--like nothing I'd ever seen before. Red, waxy mace clung to your outer shell, webbed and drippy like the top of a Dewar's bottle. You waited, half in, half out of your mother fruit, as if you could not decide whether to jump.

Later, we stumbled upon a giant pile of unattended mace, spread out on the edge of the forest, drying in the sun while a goat nibbled nearby. I was instantly enchanted with your complex beauty, and your many edible layers. Grenada was all to eager to indulge me: nutmeg syrup on nutmeg pancakes, nutmeg jam on toast, and velvety pumpkin-nutmeg soup, rich as any lobster bisque. Ever present on this Spice Island, you followed me from the table to my room: an open-air shower under the moon brings nutmeg and almond scented soap filled with crushed nutmeg shells that scrub my skin smooth. Calm ocean breezes, clear blue water, soft white sand, a hidden octopus, dinner on the beach and roosters in the road--our senses are alive and our honeymoon smells of you, Nutmeg.

Of course I brought you home with me, bags of whole nutmegs stuffed in every nook of my suitcase. After all, the only way to get that fresh, warm taste and scent is to grind it yourself. I plead with the masses to respect you, I implore them to dig out that sad, red-topped jar of dried nutmeg and drop it in the trash. Get your hands on the real thing, I beg. To grind nutmeg and admire the veined interior while rich aroma fills the air is to see your true beauty for the first time.

And yes, I sprinkle you over eggnog, but why stop there? You love on my pancakes, enhance my soup, and oh, the things you do to macaroni and cheese...simply amazing. But my favorite use remains a secret to everyone but you and me--that recipe I hold close to my heart and it's admired by many. They sing my praises, but I know who's really to thank, and that is you dear Nutmeg. Thank you. Thank you. You make me look so good.

P.S. There's a rumor that consuming more than one whole nutmeg will cause hallucinations and "trip" effects. How much pumpkin pie do you think I would have to eat to achieve this?