OSTREON / OSTREA, A crossing back

I started by putting on my apron, then I walked into the room, without looking at anyone, walked over to the kitchen towel lying lasciviously on the shelf, in which had been wrapped before he unraveled the prominent autumn hats of wild peonies, full of precious seeds
that will later have to be reached to germinate, a few cuts of hawthorns berries - also from the garden - from an ancestral bush that forms the arch delimiting my vegetable garden and whose the seeds - dangerous for vulnerable hearts - have the virtues of increasing
and accelerating blood circulation, when consumed in infusions.
In this kitchen towel, I had also stored some jewelries: a pale pin, representing a moth which I seized to hang on my black blouse from which it could only split off, such was excessive their dissonance. I inserted the pin above my chest, near my left shoulder, then
I lodged in my earlobes old earrings, whose romantic allure of delicate roses with five petals, was containing a radiant heart, color of amber.
Adorned, I walked towards the table, a piece of solid oak, fashioned by my father's hands some fifteen years ago.
From my apron I took out an oyster knife and with the help of a second kitchen towel I opened one.
A three-hour service was initiating.
I sliced the back of the brake of this first oyster, emptied her of her excess water which I collected in a bowl, was adding a dash of lemon to it and finally I was raising my eyes towards the crowd, to advance towards it and melt into it, then I was offering the shell to
the first taster whom I was inviting to take a seat on one of the prepared tables.
Once installed, after having swallowed this appetizer, I  was serving the three others preparations to the taster, inviting him to initiate at the same time as his meal, a card game, with the one I have designed: Consider the oyster.
At the end of the meal, before they left the table, I offered to each guest, one of the nuts from my garden, whose the husks had made up the macerated pigment that was filling the painted tablecloths of my installation.
Inviting them to read the telling - Deep in fractals - in two parts which related this crossing.

Link to the story that weaves the grid in which the reverie of the installation and the crossing of the performance are intertwined : 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  Deep in fractals