Friday, December 28, 2018
contemplating the New Year. Curiosity is afoot -- words & culinary. Walking in all which-ways. Neighborhoods to explore. Neighbors to meet. Books. Yes, books. Always, books. The taste of words. The taste of carrots. Perhaps, one last persimmon. Please.
especially a glass -- what it includes, what it excludes? Of course, this is a celebratory chalice. And just like poems & food cooking, sweating along the sides occurs. Just that.
Wednesday, December 26, 2018
but of what? And who is doing the seeing? The retelling? For time is a retelling, a reordering, isn't it? And who were the last to gather around the table with memories of ripe juicy tomatoes and crunchy cucumbers? And why has sun been so slim in recent poems?
and not necessarily exclamation marks. Or periods. By the way, why do periods remind me of black pepper? Why do commas remind me of spoons? Why does gray & blue seem a perfect backdrop for a poem? About changing light, of course.
Tuesday, December 25, 2018
Monday, December 24, 2018
Does not knowing matter? Is this like adding an ingredient to a dish and wondering as it's being mixed it, if this will work? And if it doesn't, there's no option to remove. So unlike a poem where a word can be edited out and inserted back in all in the blink of an I. So my ears tell me.
Saturday, December 22, 2018
It's been an unstable season for Fuyu persimmons. Gifts from a friend's tree -- sweet & perfectly
persimmon in all ways. Fufu in the markets -- problematic. Poems are seasonal and open to the issues of being problematic. And please never forget a poem has a calyx and wondrous seeds. Yes, seeds.
Thursday, December 20, 2018
Which signpost would be an indicator? Is it physical space? Or is this the action of beets taking over; making a splash on a plate? Or in the spirit of Winter Solstice, did I mean pomegranate seeds?A pomegranate is the container for petite poems. Simply, slice a pomegranate open and pry loose all those jewel-like words.
Tuesday, December 18, 2018
Monday, December 17, 2018
With a little help from an iPhone app, of course.
Doesn't the kitchen get help (or magic) from salt & herbs?
Doesn't a line of poem become, because of the appearance of a crow?
Or the gathering of stones?
Or a walk in a succulent garden?
Less than a week to Winter Solstice -- imagine that!
Saturday, December 15, 2018
The same can be said of spiny succulents. All milky and prickly. The same can be said of artichoke tips and yet how soft & sensual their hearts. Certain words are like that, too. Visually strident with armor that protects the soft belly. And as we have agreed before, each word can be a petite poem. Think of it as a tasty tidbit.
Thursday, November 29, 2018
Wednesday, November 28, 2018
Don't know but the unable-to-name intrigues pushes me toward a center -- familiar & unfamiliar. Both ancient & contemporary. Like words, colors are doors & windows. What am I opening? What, closing? In which direction will the wind blow?
Tuesday, November 27, 2018
which makes me think of the gap between party & celebration. Between food & dinner. And yes pink food -- beets in yogurt for sure. Watermelon & watermelon radishes. OK, OK, canes. By the way, when does a list burst forth as a poem.
going or coming. What weather will be encountered. Whether or not it rains, determines the soup likely to be made. The word "likely" is a technical weather-word. Like "perhaps" in a poem. Yes.
Yes, sometimes images reappear & latch themselves to different words. It happens.
Monday, November 26, 2018
Saturday, November 24, 2018
is never truly abstract at least not for long. Embodied, sensual. seasonal. Lamenting figs, I slice a persimmon and the mouth reconnects with pleasure almost forgetting the Early Girl tomatoes have
fled. Slipped from memory as a line of poetry unwritten.
or perhaps dissolving. Perspective is all. But perhaps we can agree on the beauty of the dramatic even when it comes to a pinch of red pepper flake or when we decide whether to add or remove a preposition to a line of poetry. Forming and dissolving: principles of editing. Principles of cooking.
Friday, November 23, 2018
of peek-a-boo? What a curious phrase, that. Or flowered sheets? Or especially cats? Cats are poems waiting to pounce upon the imaginary. Cats lose themselves so quickly to sleep -- that space & time of imagination so deliciously non sequitur in nature. Like a yummy meal forming from left-overs.
The urge to straighten papers, pursue the bookshelf to say "hi" to old & new friends. Perhaps, this is the family album & one day after the day of gathering, you remember. You remember. All the names like petite poems are echoing in your ear. A good feeling. Comforting as the taste of turkey.
Tuesday, October 30, 2018
We remember in fits & starts and then begin to weave a patch that remembers whole cloth. Smell cinnamon and you begin seeing scents & stories -- all personal. All tangible. You think of one word that suddenly smittens you and you hear a line perhaps of poetry, perhaps the beginning of an exquisite list of favorite words. There is much to feed us. Remember to drink plenty of water; the journey will be long. Dreaming may be interrupted.
Monday, October 29, 2018
Fill in the blank comforts as does list making. But the image above, promotes spiral-making. Or swirling words. Or in the kitchen, swirling cream in a root soup. Perhaps it all comes down to the speed of a spoon.
When hands move the dial to due north? Or noon? Or three in the morning?
When is soup perfected? When is a poem done? Or a chicken for that matter?
At the heart of it all, four petals, four directions. And a kind hunger.
stretching all the way to Paradise? Sometimes all it takes is a direct line of communication. Quite vegetal. Much like spinach sautéed with garlic. Like a line of poetry seemingly straight and then
spiraling into itself. Magical, of course.
Friday, October 26, 2018
How many masks does a person put on during a lifetime? How many somber? How many gleeful?Mischievous? How many masks does a person take off? I might as well ask, how many ears of corn does a person consume in a lifetime? How many tomatoes (please differentiate between heirloom & cherry)? How many times does a person begin a poem with "because"? Or plot that word in the middle of a line?
Wednesday, October 17, 2018
and only the surface is seen. Dazzling rays & haze commingle. Behind every ray, there is a tree. Behind every tree, a story looms. The stars are grateful for your admiration. And gratitude is the impetus for any meal shared, for any poem prompted by a friend.
Tuesday, October 9, 2018
there are two centers and each whole & complete? How does that change the next sentence you will write? The next, you will read? How does it change the taste of the next and probably last fig you will eat for many, many months? There is marvel and there is sadness in the cosmos.
Saturday, October 6, 2018
Tuesday, September 11, 2018
Moving at such speed, we would fall over if we were aware of the influence on us. But we do our balance/unbalance act of walking until we do reach a match, a lamppost, a cheap lighter. And why is this talking to me this morning? Because the light is dramatically beautiful and the shaggy eucalyptus are glowing. It's time for tomatoes & arugula. Time to hear a friend read her poems.
Monday, September 10, 2018
In the journey, does it matter? Movement, intention & mediation. Knife, fork, spoon. And, as we all know, the plate is pure paper. Food like a poem begins small. Close to water; perhaps a harbor. A cove for sure. With food as with foods -- passion aplenty.
embrace the potter's wheel. Perhaps, instead of clay, time. Or color which is another way to embrace the energies of food. Or words. I can feel it all. My hands are the perfect translators.
for the end of fig season. Caramelized Parmesan cheese with figs, walnuts, tomatoes, basil on a pita -- toasted & topped with arugula. A forest; a a canopy to protect the day. For the promise of a word or two.