Less than a week of being off the water of the mighty Colorado River, my body is still rocking. Some call it disembarkment syndrome when your mind is sensing movement that is no longer there.
My mind returns to the shore of the Grand Canyon, Poncho’s Kitchen, thick sand, rock ledges where the silent scorpion was ready to pounce on a moth that night. How it glowed white under Danny’s UV light and we watched it move in its own darkness.
what we cannot see
hidden in summer shadow
more than time and space
dVerse prompt on sounds of summer – most scorpions make no sound – saw my first one while camping on the Colorado River in the Grand Canyon
My dad was on Okinawa when the atomic bomb hit Hiroshima. He was a young sailor and rarely talked about his being there. I never saw a photo taken there. His wife was waiting in Iowa. His children were future “boomers” after he came home.
In school I read about the war crimes. About concentration camps and scientific experiments. My short essay on “the mushroom cloud” over Hiroshima won a money prize. Life went on for everyone except the ones who died.
hear the winter wind
acid rain falling for days
folds night on the land
I remember the light in grandmother’s sewing room. It was shining through on either side of her old black Singer sewing machine. That room had the best light of the whole house. It is where she stitched away for decades after her husband died. The sound of that machine echoing down the basement stairs where grandfather’s tools lay silent and dark.
Customers came and went past the living room, the kitchen colored with Fiesta ware, or up the side stairs into the back foyer set for sewing. The huge kitchen table was where she laid her cloth, cutting the fabric with shape shears, the bright light on the pins as she prepared to stitch it altogether.
light through the window
make long or short of season
the cloth unfurled
I swore this would not turn into a food blog. My second thoughts and the idea of serving a cookie for breakfast and baked in the reality that I have always sifted the thought of writing a cookbook since meeting my former and present husband, Greg, who taught me how to cook liver and onions. If that sounds like a run-on sentence it probably is, and so also is the desire to be a good cook and to write about it.
The liver and onions is not a metaphor, it was one of Greg’s prime dishes. The sweet aroma of sautéed onions waffling up in the BOQ, followed by the immergence of thin, fleshy organ meat, all cooking away in a cast iron skillet. That was the start of my desire to conquer the art of cooking and relationships. I studied it. I wanted to make it work. I even tried oxtail but to no avail. People sent recipe books for wedding presents so I did have help.
We stewed our lives together in a do-it-yourself house with two children, several dogs and a cat. My skills improved. The heat of the cast iron skillet still on the stove, melts the butter, and I am free to throw in the ingredients, some that cook fast and a few that refine themselves very slowly creating an irresistible taste.
wait for the moment
stepping out of the kitchen
to eat a cookie
While driving on a country road in England I saw a mustard field. It was just the right time when all the plants were in bloom, a patch of vibrant color on the landscape. I had to stop, take a photo, ponder the source of mustard, like Jesus sitting in the countryside, saw its brilliance and told a parable about the man who planted a mustard seed in his own field. It was a simple truth, one the people could relate to. It was a healing plant, an ancient mustard recipe. He used it to demonstrate the kingdom.
Pliny the Elder wrote of it. It can grow wild but when cultivated it is much improved. Once it is sown it is hard to get rid of it. The tiniest of seed yet Jesus said it will grow into a tree that shelters the birds.
the sound of yellow
vibrates from 2000 years
says my kingdom come
dVerse prompt on sound. Pliny the Elder wrote about natural history circa 23 to 79AD.
Owls are in the neighborhood, calling to each other, a distinct voice in the woodland. Tonight a pair hunt for frogs by the pond as I watch their heads swivel, eyes set for any movement. Mayflies hop all day over the water but where are the birds?
There have been other predator, a hawk, kingfisher and great blue heron. We stopped putting fish in. The frogs come on their own. One year there were so many tadpoles! Where are they now? Where are the frogs, chipmunk, the squirrel?
beauty of nature
springs forth at the edge of pond
predator with prey
dVerse prompt – haibun with a sense of compassion
There is always a weed to pull. Brush to cut or tend a bed of flowers coming back from a hard winter. There were a few casualties. Some late transplants made it through and seem to be alive. The seeds are in and now the wait.
I wait with the hope of food from a row of beets, spinach, lettuce, beans, chard, carrots and two kinds of radish. Today a walk in the garden despite the chill of the air. There is promise and warmth in the earth. Out on the edge the tiniest blossoms of primrose.
spring is renewal
time of greatest rejoicing
seeds and plants that bloom