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
There on the lake at Fort Parker State Park, the day lingered on the surface. Sun disappeared on the horizon yet the light stayed. The water glowed for at least an hour as we walked the shore guided by its glow.
passing of daytime
reflection bright as the night
on a cloudless sky
I had been practicing my django fontina for almost a year. There was something about being somewhere or nowhere and dropping the postcard poem addressed to someone I never knew. It started in the summer after my third grade when I entered my name in a postcard pyramid scheme. It was more fun to get than to give. I got postcards of moose in Canada, Lake Okoboji, farmland in Indiana, and cats. My favorite were the cats; cats in baskets, cat in a shoe, cat being fed some milk. At some point the getting and giving stopped and I was left with a pile of postcards, a few scrawled out words from other soon to be fourth graders and all those images.
My adult postcarding has way more words. Most adults like words but are limited by the amount of space they are allowed on the back (or front) of a small piece of thick paper. I enjoy being limited in my words. My getting django fontina is limited because I don’t always know where I am half the time and the P.O. won’t forward.
return to sender
poems sent out to the world
to complete stranger
Doing a double take on dVerse prompt on “poem” (How Does a Poem Mean? I think that is a book I studied by John Ciardi) and NaPoWriMo on switching up so in this case it is better to get than to give.
In the fall, traveling across Kentucky and the Virginias, on our way from Mammoth Cave National Park to Shenandoah National Park. The autumn colors peaking on the trees, no rain, no wind. Drive by the bourbon distilleries, you can smell the sour mash.
Along the Florida Gulf Coast there are the signs for tupelo honey and oyster man wanted. This winter it is raw oysters served at Up A Creek. Searching for my favorite sourdough bread baker who has left the town and returned to Orlando.
Springtime was in Texas, New Mexico and Arizona. There it is dry, no fires allowed. The lakes are down, dry grounds all around. Nature displayed everyday in forms cast towards the horizon. Now it is snowing in Utah.
returning to home
patient as a summer day
new journeys unfold