deep dna

Those of you who read this blog, know I am always talking some particular thing that makes my DNA "tingle". Several of my readers have mentioned the concept of "Deep DNA". I've read a bit about the notion and am totally fascinated. Deep DNA is the theory that not only does our DNA helix determine our physical characteristics, IQ, aptitudes, and emotional traits, but possibly some of our ancestor's memories, as well.

There are portions of the DNA genome sequence for which no discernible function has been identified, often referred to as "Junk DNA". What if these mystery genes might bring with them the experiences of our ancestors? It's amazing to think we could possibly tap into feelings and memories of those who lived thousands of years before us.

I'm always telling WT I was some kind of metal smith in a former life. I am drawn to metal objects like a bee to honey. What if these certain DNA tinglings, as I like to call them, these feelings of reincarnation come from an ancestor in my line who was a blacksmith? After all, thousands of lives come together to make up my own unique DNA.

One day, several years ago, when I was heavily into my ancestral research, I was completely enamored with a certain great-great grandmother, Mary Hopkins Hanna. I spent much of an afternoon, logging her data into my family file, and seriously pondering her life, her emotions on losing a father in the Civil War, as well as a son to tuberculosis. That evening, as I was making dinner, I found myself humming a slightly familiar, but unusual tune. Several days later, I had to identify this stubborn earworm. After quite a bit of poking around online, I found it was Listen to the Mocking Bird, 1855, an American folk song popular during the Civil War. The song is a mournful tale, the singer dreams of his sweetheart, who is dead and buried. It's said to be one of Lincoln's favorites. Perhaps it was one of Mary's, as well.

Listen to the voices of your DNA. Our forebear's lives, their joys and fears are living in us. And they happen to make this particular girl tingle.


Click HERE to go to the Lincoln Library for a listen to the song, as well as the lyrics of Listen to the Mockingbird.

unbearable beauty

Thou art not lovelier than lilacs,—no,
Nor honeysuckle; thou art not more fair
Than small white single poppies,—I can bear
Thy beauty; though I bend before thee, though
From left to right, not knowing where to go,
I turn my troubled eyes, nor here nor there
Find any refuge from thee, yet I swear
So has it been with mist,—with moonlight so.

Like him who day by day unto his draught
Of delicate poison adds him one drop more
Till he may drink unharmed the death of ten,
Even so, inured to beauty, who have quaffed
Each hour more deeply than the hour before,
I drink—and live—what has destroyed some men.


Edna St. Vincent Millay
Sonnet I from Renascence and Other Poems, 1917







Can anything be as unbearably beautiful as fresh cut lilacs from the manor, paired with my dearest Edna St. Vee? Well, maybe, but I can't think of anything today. Drink up, my friends. ~xx

cornmeal + blueberries = heaven

I usually make yummy treats like this only on special occasions, or when we have guests at the manor, but this recipe jumped right out of Bon Appetite and grabbed me. It's from the Huckleberry Bakery & Cafe in Santa Monica. I'm crazy for anything with cornmeal, and loved the notion of it being paired with fresh blueberries. This little cake is perfect for a lazy weekend brunch, or with a cup of tea on a rainy Monday afternoon. It's crunchy on the outside and super moist inside.

Blueberry Cornmeal Cake

1 1/3 cups flour
2/3 cup cornmeal
2 tsp baking powder
2 tsp baking soda
6 Tbsp oil
2 eggs
1 Tbsp vanilla
1 tsp honey
10 Tbsp butter
3/4 cup sugar
1 1/2 tsp salt
1 cup ricotta cheese
1/3 cup plain yogurt
3 cups fresh blueberries

Spray 10 inch springform pan with nonstick spray. Whisk flour and next 3 ingredients in medium bowl. Whisk oil, eggs, vanilla and honey in another medium bowl. Using electric mixer, beat butter, 3/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar, and salt in large bowl until creamy. With mixer on medium, gradually add egg mixture; beat to blend. Mix in flour mixture carefully, just to blend. Add ricotta and yogurt, mix on low, just to blend, do not beat. Pour half the mixture into pan, scatter half the blueberries over, spoon remaining batter over in dollops, then spread to cover berries. Scatter remaining berries on top. Sprinkle with 3 tablespoons of sugar. Bake 325 for about 1 hour, 15 minutes, or until pick comes clean. Cool completely in pan.

the reverend

They say the Rev. Gillam was never without
his backward collar and walking stick.

Every morning, he clicked about,
touching the silver tip
to the rim of his stove-top hat,
blessing parishioners
as they passed.

He was slick as snake oil,
raised his scepter in celebration
of womb and soil, sprayed holy water
on unsuspecting tots
like a great sperm whale.

Sundays always burned like hell.
Eyes like angry marbles in his face,
his prayers of sulphur filled the place;
never lukewarm, always hot.

But when a coffin came to rest,
damning stick turned modest crutch,
and eased the common crush of death,
since even Jesus wept.





willow, 2010



for more Magpie Tales participants, click HERE.

conquering the west with beef steak and a cup of coffee

Henry and Neva Hanna Crownover, circa 1910

Harvey Girl uniform

Uncle Henry and Aunt Neva were packed and ready to leave their home in Decatur, Indiana and head into the wild west to visit her parents, Palestine and Mary Hanna, who were living in Albuquerque at the time. I adore their smart travel attire. Neva's wool houndstooth skirt, with matching coat, over one arm, complete with pocketbook, gloves and hat. Uncle Henry looks mighty dapper, himself, in his summer straw hat, and collar perfectly held in place with studs, and a lovely silk tie.

I heard a fascinating piece on NPR this week about Fred Harvey, responsible for bringing good food at reasonable prices in clean, elegant restaurants, to the travelling public throughout the Southwest in the late 1800s and early 1900s. They were well known for their great steaks, coffee, and excellent service. By its peak in 1928, the Fred Harvey empire ran nearly 100 restaurants and 25 hotels from Chicago to Los Angeles.

Harvey Girls Maryellen Harris Skillman*,
right, and friend

No doubt, Uncle Henry and Aunt Neva would stop somewhere along the way, at least once, at a Fred Harvey railroad eating house. The train would stop just long enough for hungry passengers to order a blue plate special, a sumptuous meal, served on china with a blue pattern. Men patrons were even required to wear a jacket and tie in order to be served. Uncle Henry would definitely pass inspection.

Harvey Houses were famous for their excellent service, provided by their staff of Harvey Girls. Fred Harvey sought out single, well mannered, educated ladies, and placed ads in newspapers throughout the east coast and midwest for "Young women, 18 to 30 years of age, of good character, attractive and intelligent." It's estimated that 100,000 women went west to work as Harvey Girls.

Today, the Harvey Girls are most likely known from the 1946 MGM musical The Harvey Girls, in which Judy Garland plays a young woman heading west, as a mail order bride, but ends up joining the Harvey Girls, instead.The hit song from the film "On the Atchison, Topeka and the Santa Fe", won an Academy Award for Best Original Song for Harry Warren and Johnny Mercer.

In this movie, it was said that the women were "conquering the West with a beef steak and a cup of coffee". Sounds pretty good to me.



This is a Sepia Saturday post.


*Thanks to Sheri Fendley for the photo of her grandmother.

the last station

Last weekend, we went to the Drexel, a little art house theater in Bexley, and saw a matinee showing of The Last Station. I have not read Jay Prini's semi-factual novel about the last year in the life of the great 19th century Russian writer Leo Tolstoy, from which this film was adapted. But, I was completely mesmerized by Leah Bendavid-Val's Song Without Words, The Photographs & Diaries of Countess Sophia Tolstoy, and actually own a copy.

Leo Tolstoy is quite the giant in the literary world, but I must admit, I am more fascinated with his wife, the Countess Sophia Tolstoy, and was very much looking forward to seeing Helen Mirren in the role. The Countess was a deeply religious and traditional wife, but she was also daringly rebellious and remarkably modern. Mirren was perfectly cast as the feisty Sophia, not only because she is a powerful actor, but because she herself was born Ilyena Vasilievna Mironov, her father being of Russian descent. I was, however, a bit disappointed that the Countess, as an artist, was not brought out in the film, since she was a fabulous photograher in her own right, at a time when the art was relatively new.

Christopher Plummer is terrific in the role of Tolstoy. The cast also includes Paul Giamatti as Vladimir Chertkov, Tolstoy's aide and James McAvoy as his new young secretary. Each actor looks amazingly like the actual people they portray. The film focuses on the last few turbulent months of Tolstoy's life, and the struggle between he and the countess over changing his will, to prevent her from receiving the royalties from his books. Although this movie lacks the emotional punch I was hoping for, it is still beautifully put together, along with stellar performances by all. You know how nutty I am for all things Russian. I absolutely devoured every lovely detailed scene.

Sofia Tolstoy, self portrait with Anna Maslova, July 13, 1898

rhubarb lovers wherever you are...

When I was looking through my recipe cards recently, I found this one I used to make a lot in the late 70's. I'm not sure why, exactly, it has been overlooked these last 30 some years. So, I grabbed a bunch of fresh rhubarb in the produce section of The Anderson's last week, and made it over the weekend. It's easy peasy, plus moist and delicious. Why on earth was it hiding in the back of my card drawer? I whipped it up it in my new Anchor Hocking 8 x 11 baking dish, so the pieces were extra thick. It was begging for a cup of high test coffee, too. Heaven.


Willow's Rhubarb Cake

3 cups fresh rhubarb, cut in chunks
1 cup sugar
(mix and let stand while combining other ingredients)

Beat together 1 cup oil and 1 cup sugar, then add 3 eggs, 2 cups flour, 1 tsp soda, 1 tsp cinnamon, 3/4 tsp salt, 1 cup walnuts (or pecans) and mix in rhubarb. Pour into 8 x 11 inch pan. Dot with 1/4 cup butter, sprinkle 1/2 cup brown sugar over. Bake 325 for about 50 minutes, or until pick comes out clean.

pocket watch

the over crowded Sultana taken the day before the disaster

April 27th is the 145th anniversary of the greatest maritime disaster in United States history. The steamship Sultana, a Mississippi River paddle wheeler, contracted by the U.S. War Department, was loaded with Union soldiers, just released from Confederate prison camps. The legal capacity for the ship was 376, but it was crowded with 2,400 soldiers, desperate to get home. One of the Sultana's four boilers, poorly repaired just days earlier, exploded, sinking the ship, several miles north of Memphis on April 27, 1865.

No exact death toll is known, but the official count by the United States Customs service was 1,547 and estimates range from 1,300 to 1,900, even more than perished on the Titanic. This disaster received somewhat diminished attention since it took place soon after the assassination of President Lincoln, during the closing weeks of the Civil War.

Peachy Bright's statement of Civil War service
from the National Archives (click to enlarge)

My two great-great uncles, Peachy (don't you love that name? it's from the French family surname, Pechin) and Isaac Bright, born 1841 and 1843, in Madison Township, Montgomery County, Ohio, enlisted into service from Howard County, Indiana, with the 24th Indiana Artillery Regiment, were on board the Sultana. They both had just been released from horrific conditions at Andersonville prison camp and were finally on their way home to loved ones. Sadly, before they could make it back to Indiana, they both perished in the tragedy.

I'm fortunate enough to have been given Peachy's pocket watch by my late grandfather. When he presented it to me, and I slipped it out of an old wine colored Wollensak lens sleeve, I felt some powerful energies. The following piece was inspired for this week's Magpie Tales.

Peachy Bright's pocket watch

Pocket Watch
for Peachy Bright



You slipped
from that Wollensak pocket,
and hit my hand full and hard,
like a splash of cold Mississippi.

The day they marched him
to Andersonville flashed before,
and nearly blinded me.

I saw you, his sole possession,
tick and tock,

tucked in a tattered Union sock.

Then a scribbled note
sent out post-haste,
There's a chance
we'll be home in just a few days.

He steals a glance at your gold face,
marking time 'til daddy greets
his kith and kin,
feels his daughter's pinkest kiss,
Estellina's lips again.

April hope

swarms the homebound boat,

but dashed dreams blaze

bitter-bright,
as Sultana sinks that night,
at Paddy's Hen.


willow, 2010



For other Magpie Tales participants click [HERE].

reflections

I had the good fortune this past weekend to host two of my most favorite people in the whole world, the lovely Bach and Lady Wellington at Willow Manor. We had a wonderful weekend doing all our favorite things, eating, antiquing, the movies, (stay tuned for a review later this week) and it even happened to be cold enough for woolly socks and an evening by the fire.

When we were out and about on one of our little excursions, we stopped to have a cupcake in a cute bakery shop. They were fresh out of cupcakes, but we happened to be extremely enamored with a certain mirror on the shop wall. Now, I've heard of skinny mirrors in clothing stores, but bakeries? I guess it's not a bad idea. It certainly doesn't discourage the eating of cupcakes.

As all of us know, there are such things as unbiased mirrors and those magical skinny mirrors. As Bach pointed out to us, this mirror happened to be one of the skinny variety. Unfortunately, this mirror was not for sale. If it had been, we would have been fighting amongst ourselves on who would be the lucky owner.

I adore trying on clothes in a shop with skinny mirrors and great lighting in the fitting rooms. Not only do I feel like a goddess, I end up buying more clothes. But, like Elaine Benes, and the skinny mirrors at Barney's, I sometimes get my purchase home and realize it doesn't look quite as fabulous in my regular unbiased mirror, as it did on the magical one at the store.

I like what Maya Angelou has to say about forgiving ourselves. To be able to look into an unbiased mirror, see our own particular glory, and embrace our capabilities. Just think what we could accomplish, if we could see ourselves in that magical reflection, that forgiving light, and always feel like a million.

I don't know if I continue, even today, always liking myself. But what I learned to do many years ago was to forgive myself. It is very important for every human being to forgive herself or himself because if you live, you will make mistakes - it is inevitable. But once you do and you see the mistake, then you forgive yourself and say, "well, if I'd known better I'd have done better", that's all. So you say to people who you think you may have injured, "I'm sorry", and then you say to yourself, "I'm sorry". If we all hold on to the mistake, we can't see our own glory in the mirror because we have the mistake between our faces and the mirror; we can't see what we're capable of being. You can ask forgiveness of others, but in the end the real forgiveness is in one's own self. I think that young men and women are so caught by the way they see themselves. Now mind you. When a larger society sees themselves as unattractive, as threats, as too black or too white or too poor or too fat or too thin or too sexual or too asexual, that's rough. But you can overcome that. The real difficulty is to overcome how you think about yourself. If we don't have that we never grow, we never learn, and sure as hell we should never teach. -- Maya Angelou

city girl with a country heart

city girl willow's big catch 1972

It's been years since I've gone fishing. I actually love to fish. My grandmother taught me how to bait a hook with a night crawler and cast it into the stillest, darkest, deepest part of the water, under the trees. I only remember fishing once, after moving away from Grandma, at a summer barbecue of my father's work associates. Grandma taught me well, because I ended up catching the largest fish of the day with my little bamboo pole. I guess you could call me a city girl, with a country heart. Although, growing up in various subdivisions across the Midwest, wasn't exactly city, but certainly not the country, either. The American subdivision is a culture all its own. But, I'll save that for another post.

I wish I had a picture of Grandma fishing. Luckily, I do have one, in my mind's eye, contentedly sitting, pole in hand, on her lawn chair on the bank of Wildcat Creek. While browsing pics, I did, however, find this lovely old boating photo of my great-grandmother Ida Belle, with her two sons, Chester (my paternal grandfather), his brother, Uncle Bright, along with the Williams and Rains families. The picture was taken by my great-grandfather, Glenn. (You remember him, from last week's post, posed with his portable bellows camera.) This tiny postage stamp sized photo enlarged quite nicely. I love how everyone is dressed to the nines in dresses, hats, suites and ties. Every outing was a special occasion. I like that.

Ida Belle Hanna, seated center with my grandfather Chester
circa 1921, Howard County, Indiana

For more Sepia Saturday participants click [HERE].

lunch

One of my personal faves at the Columbus Museum of Art is George Tooker's Lunch, 1964, egg tempera on gesso panel.  Despite the lovely soft tones and overall quietness of the painting, it is striking, and for me, anyway, packs quite a punch. Lunch is an indirect reference to the contentious lunch counter sit-ins occurring across America in the 1960s.  Tooker’s figures all bear an uncanny resemblance to each other, silently eating their lunches, completely drained of the actual passions surrounding the issue.  Notice the lone African-American pictured in the center. You can feel the warmth in the glow of the lunchroom, and even though there is no connection between the diners, you can sense their collective unity.

George Tooker was born in Brooklyn. After graduating from Harvard in 1942, he joined the Art Students League, where he studied with Reginald Marsh, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and Paul Cadmus. Heavily influenced by Cadmus, Tooker became part of the Magic Realist circle of artists. At age thirty-one, Tooker’s first one-man show was held at the Edwin Hewitt Gallery in New York. His shows and exhibitions at major museums and galleries continued through the 1950s and 1960s. From 1955 to 1958, Tooker taught painting at the Art Students League, and in 1974 the San Francisco Palace of the Legion of Honor organized a retrospective of his work. He currently lives in Vermont.

To paint the figure as deliberately
and meditatively as does Tooker, is,
in a sense, to touch, caress, and care for it.

M. Melissa Wolfe

George Tooker: A Biography

This is a Theme Thursday post.

forgive me, jane campion

Last fall, upon arriving home from one of his traveling escapades, WT ask me if I wanted to go see the new Jane Campion movie, Bright Star, the story of the Romantic poet, John Keats, and his love for Frances "Fanny" Brawne.  He knows what a huge fan I am of Campion.  My reply was, "eh".  After a seemingly long string of mediocre Austenish period films, I wasn't in the mood. 

Well, I finally watched the DVD, and am quite ashamed of myself for thinking the stellar Ms. Campion could ever be mediocre. Yes, it is a gorgeous, lush, period film.  But, Campion's work (she wrote the screenplay, as well as directed) has a certain edgy, artistic bite, which sets it apart from the others. This one is certainly no exception. Add this movie to your queue right now. You'll thank me.

The following is a sonnet by Keats, inspired by his love for Brawne.


Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou art—
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like Nature’s patient sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.

The background music in the above video is from a wonderful scene in the film of an orchestra of male voices singing Mozart's Serenade No. 10, in B-flat major, K.  Heaven. Absolute heaven.

(one little bit of interesting Campionia:  Kerry Fox, the redheaded wild girl of Campion's An Angel at My Table nearly two decades ago, portrays Brawne's mother in this film)

leftover inspiration

The lovable Kary, over at My Farmhouse Kitchen, has been talking about her never ending Easter ham and the creative ways she's been using the leftovers. We had leg of lamb for Easter, but I picked up a ham last weekend, marked down in the post Easter clearance. After a few meals, I was ready for something different, so I made a variation of Kary's pasta. I'm not sure how she does it, but she always pictures her pasta dishes with the pasta curled up in a beautiful twist. My lame attempt is pictured above. Anyway, this was absolutely delicious and really simple to make. The browning of the ham with the mushrooms and onions gives the sauce a wonderful earthy, smoky flavor. Thanks, Kary, for the inspiration. Here's my take on her ham pasta theme:

1 pound pasta
1 bunch asparagus, cut in 2 inch pieces
1 pound fresh mushrooms, sliced
1/2 large onion, chopped
1 1/2 cup sliced ham, cut in strips
3/4 cup cream (I used Land O Lakes fat free)
1/2 cup Parmesan cheese
4 Tbsp butter
freshly ground pepper to taste

While pasta is cooking in salted water, cook asparagus in salted water, in separate pan until just tender-crisp. Saute mushrooms, onion and ham in butter in a large skillet, until tender and browned. Add cream to mushroom mixture and incorporate all those lovely brown crispies in the bottom of the pan into the cream. Add pepper to taste. Remember, the ham is salty, so I didn't add any extra salt. Add hot drained pasta, cheese, and if needed, a bit of the pasta water. Toss and serve. Yum-o-yum. A wonderful spring dinner.

Serves 4

magnolia, taxes and ms. st. vee

Every spring, when our old magnolia tree blooms, I am reminded of this photo of one of my favorite poets, my dear friend, as I like to call her, Edna St. Vincent Millay. It looks as if it could have been taken right here at the manor. I can't let National Poetry Month go by without posting just a bit of Ms. St. Vee. I adore her elegant sonnets. Even though they are a centuries old art form, hers are so masterfully written, they stand up well against today's modern poetry. Since it happens to be tax season, as well as the season of spring fever, I thought this particularly romantic piece so apropos.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

We talk of taxes, and I call you friend;

Well, such you are, --but well enough we know

How thick about us root, how rankly grow

Those subtle weeds no man has need to tend,

Though flourish through neglect, and soon must send

Perfume too sweet upon us and overthrow

Our steady senses; how such matters go

We are aware, and how such matters end.

Yet shall be told no meagre passion here,

With lovers such as we forevermore

Isolde drinks the draught, and Guinevere

Receives the Table's ruin through her door,

Francesca, with the loud surf at her ear,

Lets fall the coloured book upon the floor.

Magnolia in bloom at Willow Manor, April 12, 2010

junkie

My first wax lips
from the candy bin at Chew's
made me feel dramatic. Seductive.
Tough. From the time I switched
from Lip Smackers

to tubes of real stuff,
I was an addict. I needed more.
It turned mundane to magic,
helped me find my muse.

Then came life of hardcore stick,
capsules of confidence, quick fix
of power stashed in glove box,
pockets, purse, and drawers.

This butt sprung girl still adds kick

to her patina. I love the trick

it turns, the journey in my head
with just a twist of red.




willow, 2010

For more Magpie Tales participants click [HERE].

move over annie oakley

Ida Belle Lewis Hanna, Albuquerque, 1913

I love this portrait of my paternal great-grandmother, Ida Belle Lewis Hanna. It was taken in about 1913, shortly after her marriage to Glenn Hanna. I love her Oakleyesque pose on the rocks outside Albuquerque, New Mexico, complete with her leather skirt, holster, pistol, bullet belt and just a peep of petticoat.

Both Ida's father, Joseph Thomas Lewis, and Glenn's brother, Guy L. Hanna, were ill with tuberculosis, and the families had relocated to New Mexico for the benefits of the climate. The Lewis family was from Escambia County, Alabama and the Hannas from Howard County, Indiana.

Glenn Hanna and his delivery wagon for J.C. Boyd Grocer, circa 1912

I fondly remember my great-grandma telling me how she met Glenn, a delivery man for J. C. Boyd, Grocer in Albuquerque, behind a huge hanging bunch of bananas in the store. They were married March 19, 1913 in New Mexico, and returned to farm in Howard County, Indiana, after it was sadly determined that Glenn's brother, Guy, would not recover from TB.

As Alan mentioned this week, if it weren't for avid enthusiasts, like my great-grandfather, who invested in the art of photography, we would not have these wonderful treasures, these unique bits of history, family legacy, and art. We owe them a great debt of gratitude.

Glenn with his portable bellows camera, circa 1913

This is a Sepia Saturday post.

hand to mouth

Have you ever wondered who sets the criteria for which foods are acceptable to eat with your hands? Grilled corn, artichokes and an occasional asparagus spear are okay, but why not tomatoes or string beans? We're coming up on the season of summery food, and I'm anxious to fire up the patio grill. I don't know about you, but I happen to be a hands on kind of eater. I love the whole gloriously tactile experience of eating hand to mouth, so to speak. Fries just don't taste the same eaten with a fork. They must be hand dipped in a large puddle of ketchup and slowly brought to the mouth. And if ketchup gets on the fingers, the fries taste all the more delicious. The same goes for all kinds of grilled foods and dips.

I am known, to cut a large sandwich or burger in half, before picking it up with my hands, but I never eat a taco, ribs or fish and chips with a knife and fork. It's too remote. Finger licking, on the other hand, is right out. I don't care if it is fried chicken. By the way, do Europeans always eat everything with a knife and fork, or is this perception just urban legend?

When eating out, I usually take on the conversational eating style of the dining companion. Personally, I am very good at gleefully diving into both food and conversation at once, speaking gracefully out of the side of my mouth, even when it's full. One dear friend, in particular, not only refuses to use her hands for anything, she only speaks after she has chewed each bite 50 times, and will daintily raise up her index finger in front of her mouth, as a signal for me to wait for her food free response. Needless to say, conversation is slow and lunch goes on for hours. She probably thinks I eat like a pig. However, I do savor every bite, especially if I use my hands. And not to worry. I always use a napkin.

It's so beautifully arranged on the plate -

you know someone's fingers have been all over it.

Julia Child

photo from google images

the essentials

I was a little more than leery when Turner Classic Movies announced last year that Alec Baldwin would co-host Saturday night's The Essentials with the astute Robert Osborne. I must admit, I don't particularly care for Baldwin. How could he, of all people, possibly have anything to say about classic film?

After the first few segments last year, I thought, "Dearest Bob, Bob, Bob, are you off your noodle?" There, in the ubiquitous matching red chairs, were the oh-so-classy Osborne, offering his wealth of film knowledge with his usual gracious elegance, and Baldwin slouched back, arrogantly hogging the conversation. It was the pairing of a tall flute of champagne with a can of beer. I cringed. How could it possibly come to this?

But, as the year progressed, Baldwin surprised me. He's actually quite articulate and knowledgeable about film. Who knew? I must say he looks pretty darn dapper these days, assuming his best "come hither" posture on the edge of his red leather chair. And do I detect the slightest adding of gray around his face? Perhaps he is being groomed to succeed the 78 year old Osborne? Ah, but I still rue the day, since Robert Osborne is quite the essential in my little book.

coffee, bullvinkle and me

I miss my Java. Okay, I admit it, on special occasions, like yesterday, Easter morning, I treat myself to a cup. The days of my morning potfulls are gone. A year or so ago, I went cold turkey off the bean. You know, it wasn't nearly as difficult as I thought. I braced for all kinds of nasty withdrawal symptoms; headaches, dragging around in a zombie-like state. But, no, I sailed into tea drinking seas quite smoothly, I'm proud to say, and I'm sleeping again, like a baby.

Don't get me wrong. Tea can't even be compared to The Cuppo. I would refer to it as "cuppa", but that would be considered female, wouldn't it? Coffee is definitely masculine in my book, full of brawn and gusto. Maybe I should call it "Javo", as well? Tea, on the other hand, is delicately feminine. I like tea, but it isn't a qualified replacement for coffee. I realize how much I miss coffee, after I have a cup. That rich, dark, glorious jolt sends me to the stars, or actually, to be more specific, it sends me to Bullwinkle.

Since I rarely drink it, the grand fix of caffeine makes me jazzed. The theme song from The Rocky and Bullwinkle Show (that would be "Bullvinkle" to Boris and Natasha) spins fast in my head. So, while I'm in temporary heaven, with the aroma and flavor, the jolt makes me fly like a supersonic squirrel. Not to worry. I visit Bullwinkle J. Moose and his friends, in Moosylvania, where it's good to the last drop, only occasionally, like on Ground Hog's Day and Easter.

the hunt

We banded

together in our foxhole

on the curve of the steps,

my uncles and I, sweating bullets,

waiting for the blitz.

Baskets? Not in the 50s.
Those were for sissies.
We looted with pots and pans.
Industrial strength.
Post war Americans.

Was it my imagination
or were eggs bigger then?
Four filled my saucepan.
Ample for a regiment.



willow, 2010



For more Magpie Tales participants click [HERE].

Happy Easter, my friends!

amaryllis

for Evelyn


Last week, as we planted
what was left of your frail body,
I peered in that deep

and neatly cut rectangle

and thought how

you never wore garden gloves,

but loved this black dirt

against your skin.

How often, after tending

your pale naked ladies,
a bit of earthy Kansas
showed under your nails
like a badge of courage.

Now you, brave lady,
are planted with the lilies,
and I cling to spring's promise
that death is only for a season.




willow, 2010

kathryn stripling byer

Did you know April is National Poetry Month? It was initiated by the Academy of American poets in 1996. Publishers, booksellers, literary organizations, libraries, schools and poets around the country band together every April to celebrate poetry and its vital place in American culture, through readings, festivals, book displays, and workshops.

I'm celebrating today, by profiling my bloggy friend, the very talented Kathryn Stripling Byer. Most of her poetry is set in the mountains of North Carolina, where she was named Poet Laureate from 2005-2009. Her books of poetry include Catching Light (Louisiana State University Press, 2002); Black Shawl (1998); Wildwood Flower (1992), which was the 1992 Lamont Poetry Selection of The Academy of American Poets; and The Girl in the Midst of the Harvest (1986), which was published in the Associated Writing Programs award series.

I am particularly fond of this piece, published in Aretha's Hat: Inauguration Day, 2009, a collaboration with Penelope Scambly Schott.


First Presbyterian


Sitting in church every Sunday, I hated the hats
I had to wear. They were small things with net
attached. Or hard plastic fruit. They did not fit
and sometimes they fell into the aisle or my lap
if my mother had not pierced their velveteen
skins with hat pins she wove through my stiff
hair-sprayed hair. There was no way to scratch

my small soul through those hats. No way
I could sit through the sermons if not daydreaming
out of them, using the blank wall beside the piano
as movie-screen, imagining myself hatless, free
of my hair spray and beehive, my hair grown
miraculously long, trailing hat pins across
the small town, heading north toward what soon

would be Interstate. What happened next?
Let us pray, said the preacher and I came awake,
though I shut my eyes dutifully. What was
he saying that I should heed, who was this God
who knew everything? Why should I pull on a girdle
and hose for His sake and sit waiting for Him
to call? Just As I am, we sang, closing the service.
My soul took a deep breath and walked out.



I am very flattered that Kathryn has recently shared some wonderful pieces in my new creative writing blog, Magpie Tales. And guess who she happened to feature today on her own blog, kicking off National Poetry Month? ME! My woolly socks are completely blown away. Thank you, Kathryn. It's such an honor. Pop over to her blog, [Here, Where I Am] and say hello.