cinnamon - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Cinnamon bark curls lay on the counter, the matt brown so natural against the pale granite. Ivy crouched so that she was eye level with them, gazing at the chaotic twisting shapes, no two of them the same no matter how many she let tumble from the packet. On cold autumn days, the ones that brought the first nip of winter blusters, she cooked a hearty chilli. These cinnamon sticks would give her a deep base for the flavor. Ivy straightened up, sweeping three of them into her hand, the almost hidden red hue of the bark soft against her deep brown skin. She held them up to her nose to drink in the aroma, feeling that gentle striated texture only mother nature can provide, before letting them fall into the already hot oil.
Cinnamon rained down from the sieve onto the fresh baked cookies, pushed by the door draft every bit as much as rain in an autumn gust. When River moved the plate a round hole was left on the white formica counter and he couldn't help but add a cinnamon smile and two thumb print eyes.
Cinnamon tea with a drizzle of honey was all Granny asked for these days. She simply wanted the bark steeped for enough time to give a gentle flavour to the hot water and a spoon of clover honey if we could find it. It was her drink of choice with just that little sweetness for her "pick-me-up" but lacking the caffeine.
Like my granny always said, cinnamon can break the sugar out of anything. Everything seems sweeter with it. So many times I came home as a kid to a house that smelled of cinnamon. She dusted it into those buns like winter's first smattering of snow, thin but perfectly even.
On the corner of the market stall were bundles of cinnamon sticks, perhaps a half dozen tied with the cheap twine, a redundant bow on top. With the sun already setting, the clouds above taking on an orange hue they lacked only an hour before, Rainer could smell a deal. He picked up a bundle and pretended to inspect. Though the cinnamon was dry and as fragrant as any one could hope to find, he kept his face the same as if his aunt had produced a pair of socks for Christmas once again. Whilst appearing to inspect the merchandise his attention was really on the seller, watching his mirco-tells from the corner of his eyes, choosing the best approach to score a bargain.