eight tubes of lipstick and a buckeye

No woman I know 

could ever be a terrorist. 

Put a bomb in a Gucci bag? 

Oh, no way! 

 Joan Rivers

I'm not the only one who puts on a few extra pounds in the winter.  My handbag does, too.  Several years ago, when the extra gigantic bags were in, the average woman's handbag weighed nearly a back-breaking 7 pounds, 11 ounces.  Thank goodness, everything's a bit smaller now, including the electronics, but by the end of winter, mine's heavy.

This week was time for the annual spring purse purge.  The contents is dumped out and weeded through, like a garden. All kinds of odd junk, quite forgotten at the bottom of the bag, is excavated, including chopsticks, fortune cookie fortunes, eight tubes of lipstick and my lucky Ohio buckeye.

The sorted stuff went into my new waterproof vinyl spring bag, a great find on the TJ Maxx clearance rack for $24.99. It has all kinds of nifty zipper compartments and even came with a matching umbrella, even though I'm not really an umbrella using kinda girl.  It also has my main criteria; an over the shoulder strap, for hands free shopping.

I love my glow-in-the-dark plasticized beetle key chain. It makes finding keys at the bottom of a very large, dark bag a breeze. You can find them here.

I'm thinking balls are to men what purses are to women. 

It's just a little bag, but we feel naked in public without it.  

Sarah Jessica Parker, Sex and the City


What do you feel naked in public without?

manor mystery sol-ved

Margit Pogany, self-portrait

It turns out, after some investigation, my creamy egg-like alien bust is that of Margit Pogany, a Hungarian art student. The famed Romanian sculptor, Constantin Brancusi, met her in Paris in 1910 and was his inspiration for his "Mademoiselle Pogany" series.

Over the course of 23 years, he constructed numerous versions of the sculpture, of which he is most famous.

My Scott Antique Market find is a 1961 plaster copy of  Brancusi's Mademoiselle Pogany III.

Constantin Brancusi, (1876-1957) was a central figure of the modern movement and a pioneer of abstraction. His sculpture is noted for its visual elegance and sensitive use of materials. Combining the directness of peasant carving with the sophistication of the Parisian avant-garde, he developed his own unique style by simplifying objects into the geometrical and sparse, for which he gained world-wide fame.

So, there you have it, my friends. Another Willow Manor mystery solved.

bronze Mademoiselle Pogany III, 1912 and my plaster Mademoiselle Pogany, 1961

alien meets picasso

You've most likely been losing sleep, tossing and turning, wondering what item I found on my weekly thrift trip.  Actually, this past weekend was the last Scott Antique Show of the season, which is bittersweet, since there won't be another one until the weekend after Thanksgiving, but being the last day, vendors are ready to bargain.

I used my dickering skills, with a bit of extra charm, to land a great deal on this fabulous creamy mod head, with perfect patina, dated 1961, from Ray Mongenas, of Mongenas Antiques, Loveland, Ohio. Funny, his location is on Hanna Avenue, Hanna being my maiden name. He told me the fascinating story, how he found the head while picking at an old house in Cincinnati. Anyway, she's ultra quirky, very "alien meets Picasso".  

Her most delicious feature is her low chignon.  If you remember, I was all about the chignon last week.  Was I remembering the future? These synchronicities seem to come in groups of three for me.  I'll be watching for Chignon No. 3. Maybe this subject deserves a poem. I think it might.

Happiness is when what you think, 

what you say, and what you do 

are in harmony.

 Mahatma Gandhi

tryst

Twist of herringbone and tie,

guidebook anxious in your grasp,

we wait as charms dangling

in the bracelet of an afternoon queue;

synchronize watches, then pass

like bookends in the Salle des États.

A tangle of art and lust, our palms

flush, while lonesome eyes chiaroscuro

from canvas-covered walls

and bullet-proof glass,

frozen in Janson History gray,

monochrome, medievally quiet.


Tess Kincaid
March, 2011

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rumor has it

Do yourself a favor and add The Criterion Collection edition of The River, 1951, to your Netflix queue. The film adaptation of Rumor Godden's novel by director Jean Renoir (son of the famous artist), is a lovely coming of age story of three young women, set in India on the banks of the Bengal River.

One of the things I like most about this movie, is that it plays like a mix of documentary and drama.  The cast is a blend of actors and non-professionals, which gives it a wonderful "real" quality.  It's also obvious that Jean inherited his father's artistic eye.  The film is flush with the sensual colors of India and many scenes look as if they might have been lifted from one of his father's paintings.

Rumor Godden

The Criterion Collection copy of this film includes an added treat: the 1995 BBC documentary of one of my favorite authors, Rumer Godden: An Indian Affair, a gorgeously filmed biography of the author, told as she journeys back to her childhood home in India, three years before her death at age 90.

She published 70 books, among them 21 novels. A number were big sellers, several were made into films, including my personal favorite, Black Narcissus. Four have remained continuously in print since they were first published.

Godden's is a world of nuns and sinners, ballet dancers and one-legged soldiers, the British, the Indian and the Eurasian in the middle. Her novels are both intensely funny and deeply moving. Next time you're at the library, pick up one of her books. You will thank me.

fly to the brutal clean

Castile soap is a name used in English-speaking countries for olive oil based soap made in a style similar to that originating in the Castile region of Spain, as early as the 1600s. The word "castile" actually means "land of castles". A few weeks ago, I mentioned in my poem "Molt" about sprouting "castile wings" and flying to the "brutal clean".

The poetic metaphor conjured images of the Kirk's Castile soap of my childhood, so much so, that I couldn't stop thinking about its distinctive scent.  Friday, when I was grocery shopping, I spied a small stack of Kirk's on the bottom shelf of the soap aisle at Kroger and tossed a three-pack in my cart.

It still has the white paper wrapper, now jazzed-up with a slick finish.  I was a bit disappointed, since it seems quite unscented, without any distinguishable traces of the unique trademark scent I remember so well. Maybe my olfactory system isn't as keen as it once was? Nevertheless, I adore the silky way it lathers, especially in well-water. It's the brutal clean, without dryness. I even like it better on my face than my pricey facial cleanser.  I love thriftiness. And chain reactions.  Do you have a favorite soap?

I'd like to be rich enough 

so I could throw soap away 

after the letters are worn off.

Andy Rooney

north is good

Chignon, Chuck Jones

(shēn-yŏn') 
n.
A roll or knot of hair worn at the back of the head or especially at the nape of the neck. From Old French chaignon, chain, collar, nape of the neck.

Le Chignon, Eva Gonzalès , 1865-70

My hair is finally long enough to wear pulled up into a messy chignon. For one thing, its quick and easy. It's great for keeping pencils handy, and sometimes, I add chopsticks. An added bonus is that my earrings are highlighted. The old danglies have been rescued from the back of the jewelry box.  It's nice to have at least one feature heading north these days, when everything else seems to be shifting south.

The chignon can be traced back to Ancient Greece, where Athenian women commonly kept theirs in place with gold or ivory pins. Athenian men wore the style, as well. It was also popular in Ancient China, where married women wore a low knot. During the Victorian era, chignons were often enormous constructions including false hair or pads. In the 1940s, many women wore the chignon under a headscarf, while working in factories to support the war effort during World War II. The timeless chignon is still popular today because of its elegance, and ease.

Portrait de Dora au Chignon, Pablo Picasso, 1937

It's interesting to note that in the Scottish lowlands, where my paternal ancestors hailed from, a variation of the chignon was once called a "cockernonnie" or "cock-up". That's all I have to say about that.

I think hairstyle is the final tip-off

whether or not a woman really knows herself.

Hubert de Givenchy, Vogue 1985

As you can see from the sidebar, my chapbook, Patina, is available for pre-order.  I have an advance sales period of six weeks, before the pressrun is determined.  If you are interested in purchasing a copy, it would help me tremendously if you would pre-order now.  Click the book image on my sidebar or the link below.  Thanks so much for your invaluable support, my friends. You're the best. 

FINISHING LINE PRESS PRE-ORDER

dark elixir

(mə-lăs'ĭz) 
n., pl., molasses.
A thick syrup produced in refining raw sugar and ranging from light to dark brown in color.

I love any recipe containing rich, dark molasses. Some time back, I was quite surprised when one of my European blog friends had never heard of such a thing.  I didn't realize it was such an American commodity.  This week, I stumbled upon a recipe for Indian Pudding.  Of course, the name alone made my Cherokee DNA tingle, but it also contains a double treat:  molasses and cornmeal.  This might be considered a fall or winter dish, since it is delightfully earthy, rich and spicy. Since they are my favorite months of the year, I celebrated in my usual quirky way, by making it on the first day of spring. It was delicious. And still cool enough in Central Ohio to enjoy it while wearing woolly socks.

Indian Pudding

1 cup yellow cornmeal
4 cups milk, heated, but not boiling
2 eggs, beaten
3 ounces of finely minced suet (Okay? Fresh out; used butter. Isn't this what birds eat?)
1/2 cup sugar
2/3 cup molasses
3/4 tsp salt
1/4 tsp ground ginger
1/8 tsp ground allspice
1/4 tsp cinnamon

1/8 tsp freshly ground nutmeg (this is always fun)
1/4 tsp ground cloves

Preheat oven to 300 degrees F, butter an eight inch baking dish (I used a 9 inch round stoneware). Gradually add the cornmeal to the milk and stir; mix until thickened. Cool slightly, fold in the eggs. Add the remaining ingredients and mix well. Pour into baking dish and bake for 2 hours.  Serve hot with vanilla ice cream.

Don't forget, my new chapbook, Patina, is available for pre-order.  I have an advance sales period of six weeks, before the pressrun is determined.  If you are interested in purchasing a copy, it would help me tremendously if you would pre-order a copy now.  Click the book image on my sidebar or the link below.  Thanks so much for your invaluable support, my friends. You're the best. 

FINISHING LINE PRESS PRE-ORDER

mad hatter and majolica

Love is the magician 

that pulls man out of his own hat.

Ben Hecht

I'm crazy about hats. I found this fabulous "Mad Hatter" at Gee-Dub (that's my local Goodwill store) on my weekly Friday visit. It's black leather, with a red feather on the side, and looks to be from the late 60s/early 70s. My doppelganger, Johnny Depp, would be proud of it's perfect quirkiness. Props are part of my particular idiom.

Lurking with the glassware, waiting to be discovered, was this lovely little Majolica decanter for $1.99.  It appears to be fairly old, judging from the bottom, and in perfect condition.  What kind of fruit is it?  I don't know. It's a mystery. But I like it, nonetheless.

Victorian Majolica was originated by Mintons Ltd, who exhibited it at the Great Exhibition of 1851 under the name "Palissy Ware". The debt to the eccentric 16th century potter Bernard Palissy is obvious from its naturalistic plant and animal motifs molded in relief and splashed with bold color and clear glazes.  Many late 19th-century majolica designs had rustic motifs with backgrounds of basketry and wooden-bound buckets decorated with molded flowers, birds, fish and animals. Handles were made like rustic tree branches, rose stems and twined flowers and leaves.

PS-- Don't forget my new chapbook is available for pre-order.  I have an advance sales period of approximately six weeks, before the pressrun is determined.  So, if you are interested in purchasing a copy, it would help me tremendously if you would pre-order a copy now.  Click the book image on my sidebar or the link below.  Thanks so much for your invaluable support, my friends. You're the best.

FINISHING LINE PRESS PRE-ORDER

It's ready!

I was surprised last night with a message from my publisher, telling me my new chapbook, Patina, is on their website and ready for purchase.  It's over a month earlier than expected, so needless to say, I was thrilled.

Last June, I submitted my first poetry manuscript to the Finishing Line Press Open Chapbook Competition.  When hearing nothing by November, I was convinced it was a wash.  Just before Christmas, I was elated to learn I was chosen as a semi-finalist and they accepted my chapbook for publication.

Patina, is a 26 page collection of some of my very first poetry, stemming from my love of ancestry and all things vintage.

Tess Kincaid’s Patina reveals a poet already keenly focused on her materials. Poem by poem they speak to her and she engages them in a poetic dance that by turn waltzes, tangos, and quick-steps its way through a collection exploring family and personal history. Kincaid has a wit to match her craft. The poems’ surfaces invite entry. Their depths do not disappoint.   --Kathryn Stripling Byer

Just as natural patina can passivate objects from further decay, the poems in Tess Kincaid's debut collection form a lasting sheen for the keepsakes of memories that the poet strives to hold.  These vignettes display a polished resonance that haunts yet astonishes the reader with its stunning word choices and sonic musicality.  Like a master craftsman, Kincaid creates her own distinct pattern & style through vivid imagery, precise language, and unique figurative expression.  Her poems remain indelible as the personal past she has restored.   --Greg Sellers

The poetics of Tess Kincaid's Patina balance between discipline and whimsy. Her lyrics and character sketches achieve something many poets do not even try to do:  bring us characters trying to love the world, and a world fertile with sacraments of meaning.          --Annie Finch

Tess Kincaid’s Patina is aptly named, with its acute sense of how the past taints the present and its impressive demonstration of how the poetry of this moment bears the shadow of centuries of tradition.
   --John Biguenet

Okay, now here's the scoop. Finishing Line is a small press and depend on authors to help promote their books. I have an advance sales period of approximately six weeks, before the pressrun is determined.  So, if you are interested in purchasing a copy, please do so as soon as possible by clicking on this link:

FINISHING LINE PRESS PRE-ORDER

A huge thank you to my faithful readers, who have been a tremendous encouragement along the way. You are the best. I could not have done it without you, sweet people. 

swashbuckle reprise

This sword drawn overhead 

grows lazy in my palm, 

as creeds melt away, 

remarkably obtuse, slow

on this road that has no turn.

The walls of my mind
are covered in hushed,
unspoken wallpaper,
a mecca, calm as gentle Jesus,
shielded by invisible memories.

My blade becomes a trowel,
a garden hoe, to till
in search of long-buried

love, the dead, who know
there is no rage in Heaven.

Tess Kincaid

March 2011

artwork by Tim Cantor

i was a swashbuckler

Isn't it amazing how a tune can evoke a specific event in time? Woody Allen includes the best music in his films. Last weekend, I watched Scoop, and a piece of movie music carried me straight back to my childhood. My uncles, actually more like brothers in age, and I used to sword fight to Aram Khachaturian's Sabre Dance. We would play the piece from an LP record on a turntable, volume cranked to the max.

When the music ended, we moved the needle back and played it over until we were completely clashed out. Don't worry, we didn't use actual swords. Curtain rods were the next best thing, thrilling crash of metal on metal, imaginary sparks flying, catching the room on fire. I miss my Joan of Arc days, swashbuckling with the best of them. I should take fencing lessons.

By the way, the Khachaturian is deliciously quirky music. I think I will have it played at my funeral.

our Ben-Hur production still, 1959

We were an incredibly theatrical household. The saber dances are tucked safely away in my mind's eye, but I wish I had a tangible photo. I do have a shot of one of our Ben-Hur-esque dramatic productions. This wasn't just for fun; we were dead serious players. Speaking of serious, I was rather a precocious child. Here I am below, busy with some very serious writing, maybe an epic screenplay or some poetry. Nothing has changed.

This is a Sepia Saturday post.

salley

Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet;
She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.
She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree;
But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.

In a field by the river my love and I did stand,
And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.
She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;
But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

William Butler Yeats


I love this Yeats poem so much because a "salley" happens to be a willow tree. Salley is an anglicisation of the Irish "saileach", meaning willow, i.e., a tree of the genus Salix. Willows are known as "salleys" or "salley trees" in parts of Ireland.  This poem was subsequently set to music by Herbert Hughes to the air "The Maids of the Mourne Shore" in 1909.

'Tis my Scots-Irish I'm a-feelin', stretchin' its bonny legs and doin' a fancy jig. Your DNA doesn't have to be tingling to enjoy this song. Everybody is Irish this week. And please don't forget to send a big chunk of your good Irish energies and prayers to our dear friends in Japan.

photo borrowed from Google images

morris minor gray

Naming nail polish would be a delightful occupation. I've never actually met anyone with a career in polish, but I can imagine them, deep in thought, scribbling notes on dinner napkins, much like a poet. Mine would be a bit on the odd side, like "Burnt Toast" or "Old Penny".  I got a fun new nail color this week called "Gray by Gray". Now, if I was naming this color, it would be "Morris Minor Gray".

I can easily see myself buzzing around Central Ohio in a life-sized Morris Minor just like this one.  It's so very English, so very quirky, so perfectly me. The Morris Minor was a British economy car that debuted at the Earls Court Motor Show, London, on 20 September 1948. Designed under the leadership of Alec Issigonis, more than 1.3 million were manufactured between 1948 and 1971.

Years ago, I had a 1967 red VW bug convertible. Gosh, I adored that car. It was partially converted to an automatic. The floor clutch was removed, but I still had to use the gear shift; the best of both driving worlds. I wish I still had it. They say the Morris Minor is the Volkswagen Beetle of Britain.  Anybody have an old dusty one laying around in their garage they might want to give me?

Alan, is that you in the back?

lord love a duck

my rubber ducky

What does "lord love a duck" mean, anyway? The only person I know who says it, is my dear uncle, who calls me "Duch", (not Duck), short for Duchess and makes me laugh until I can't breathe.

Speaking of laughing, was anyone else wacky enough to watch Lord Love a Duck on TCM Wednesday night?  It's a spazzy 60s satirical comedy, starring Roddy McDowall and Tuesday Weld, sort of a cross between Beach Party and Dr. Strangelove. It's my kind of quirk and it certainly lent its fair share of giggles.

Of all sources, the Oxford English Dictionary surprisingly notes just one, James Joyce's Ulysses. Remember this time last year, in honor of St. Patrick's Day, overtaken by my Irish DNA, I dived head first into the book, pledging to read it from cover to cover, only to come up gasping for air?  Although it has some gorgeous language, I shelved it, deciding it was much easier to read the most tasty passages singled out, online. Anyway, apparently T. S. Eliot used the phrase, "lord love a duck", as well as P. G. Wodehouse. Since it has been used a lot in inoffensive situations,  it is doubtful it is a euphemism for the F-word.  It also should be noted that "duck" or "ducky" has been used since the 16th century, when referring to a dear one, or sweetheart.

So, duckies, it all boils down to this: it's a quirky phrase to say, when nothing else seems to fit. I like that.

"...shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes."

--James Joyce, from Molly Bloom's soliloquy, Ulysses 

a chicken and a box of pastry

Last week, I mentioned picking up a rotisserie chicken, which I like to do on occasion, for a quick and easy meal.  Another fun twist is making turnovers using frozen puff pastry. These are incredibly quick and tasty.  I followed this recipe, but endless stuffing possibilities are now rolling around in my head.  I'm sticking to minimal bread for lent, so they're on the back burner, so to speak, for now, at least.

Chicken and Gruyère Turnovers

Cut 2 sheets of thawed frozen puff pastry (one 17 ounce package) in half to form 4 rectangles.  Dividing evenly, top half of each with a mix of 1 1/2 cup shredded rotisserie chicken, 1 1/2 cups shredded Gruyère, and 1/2 cup frozen peas. Seal the pastries and brush tops with beaten egg. Bake 400 degrees until golden, about 20 minutes. Serve with Dijon mustard. Serves 4.

In Italy, there's always chickens, but no eggs. 

In Africa there's eggs, but never chickens. 

Who separated them?

Caravaggio, The English Patient

same ingredients, similar brew

Lee Miller, WWII

A week or two ago, my illustrious blog friend, Alan Burnett (today revealing his nickname "Ali") left this comment on my recent post on Charles Simic:

There must be something about 

certain characteristics that pool together: 

born collector, notebook-keeper, blog writer. 

Same ingredients, similar brew and a knowledge 

of what you like, I'll probably like. 

Off to look up Simic 

(just written his name down in my note-book).

That day, unbeknownst to me, Alan posted an article on his blog titled "Swaying His Legs Like a Pair of Woolen-Coated Pendulums", about writing a novel in a series, on the back of postcards mailed to a friend (I loved the woolliness of the title, as well as the postcards) and the very same day, I posted my poem "Exposition of Sleep" which also included "pendulum", not exactly an everyday sort of word.

After this series of small synchronicities, Alan proposed an experiment.  We each would choose a postcard which would represent a current thought or interest, add a message identifying the thought, and mail them to each other on the same day, Saturday, February 26, 2011.

I quickly pulled out three postcards from my collection.  One, a girl in WWII military uniform with a tie, a street scene with a vintage bookseller in Paris, and a 1960s era TWA postcard, depicting an American girl with a red bicycle, in Paris.  It was a hard decision, but I finally chose the last.

postcard sent by Alan Burnett

Here is the card Alan sent me.  Upon first glance, I immediately noticed Lee Miller in military uniform with a tie, very similar to one of my unmailed choices. He mentions going to Oxford and buying a lot of vintage postcards all based on book covers; this corresponds with my other card choice.  But, what I didn't initially see, is the fact that the book, The Lives of Lee Miller by Antony Penrose, is about a successful American fashion model  who moved to Paris in the 1920s and established herself as a photographer, producing some of the most powerful images of the century.

So what is the result of our little experiment?  Even though the two postcards are very different, (hop over to Alan's blog and take a look at mine) there is still a wealth of similarities lurking under the surface.

In the body of the written correspondence, we both mention personal adventures and vintage ephemera. He mentions traveling to Oxford; I mention New York.  He talks about the art form drama; I mention poetry. His card shows a talented female artist Lee Miller; I mention Edna St. Vincent Millay.

Among all the similarities, it all boils down to this:  both our cards picture American girls who went to Paris, a fascinating mutual theme. These synchonicites are not surprising in two people with similar interests, characteristics that pool together like doppelgangers. It's amazing how kindred spirits can connect so easily in this digital age of blogging. But, when I told WT the results of our little test, he laughed.  "Does Alan know you're psychic?"

P.S.--Okay, this is spooky.
(click to embiggen)

sauté

I snap cloves of garlic

under the blade

of my most dangerous

knife, highly addictive

as popping bubble-wrap.

Fevered stars hop

fast, dance in cast-iron,

our brave mouths kiss

hearty with pungent taste.

Venus sizzles imperative,

hungry in the night kitchen.

Tess Kincaid

March 2011

To join the creative writing fun at Magpie Tales, click HERE.

molt

I shed unnecessary hair,

gather it from the drain and toss it
like a lip-stained Dixie cup.

A run-away-from-home bag waits,
ready, packed with leftover people,
dry as cracked slivers of soap.

I forget it on purpose, sprout fresh
castile wings and fly to the brutal clean.

Not a canary to the fair-bird branch,
but bark rogue, find the woods’ deep
bosom of scrub and fern. 

This time I prefer bears and wolves.

Tess Kincaid

March 2011


Would you like me to read it to you?

photo courtesy of Google images

a lost art

The Whistling Boy, Frank Duveneck, 1872
Cincinnati Art Museum

Apparently, we have become too self-conscious to whistle in public. It used to be quite common to hear total strangers, out and about, happily whistling. I wish I could. If I pucker at just the right angle, I produce one note, a weak high D. That's it. I couldn't whistle an entire song, if my life depended on it.

WT, on the other hand, is a natural-born whistler. He can whistle anything, embellished with trills, even key changes. I don't know about you, but whistling triggers my serotonin levels, evoking a sense of the warm woollies. When I wake up to perky whistling, I know it's going to be a good day. Would I be stretching it to say my DNA is tingling? Maybe not. That deep DNA just might be doing its thing.

My uncles tell me a lady in our little rural Indiana church was known to whistle solo hymns for the congregation, complete with a lace hanky strategically clasped in her hands. My aunt loves to tell the story of how she won first place in a whistling competition in the 1950s. To this day, we tease her about opening up a prestigious School of Whistling, before it becomes a lost art.

Speaking of, what happened to all the great whistling in movie music?  Has Hollywood become too sophisticated to whistle? You know, like the iconic A Fistful of Dollars theme, the "Colonel Bogey March" in The Bridge on the River Kwai or even the Andy Griffith Show theme?

There are a lot of interesting superstitions connected with whistling. In Russian and other Slavic cultures, whistling indoors is believed to bring poverty, "whistling money away", whereas whistling outdoors is considered normal.  In Serbia, it is said whistling indoors will attract mice, while in Korea, Japan, parts of South East Asia, and South India, whistling at night is thought to bring snakes. In Scotland, some people say whistling makes Our Lady, Mary cry; this is told to small children to keep them quiet. On board a sailing ship, whistling is thought to encourage the wind strength to increase. Among, many theater superstitions, whistling on a stage is thought to bring bad luck or at least a bad performance.

I thought it might be fun to write a poem about whistling.  When I finished the first draft, I realized this piece seems to portray more than one kind of bodily noise.  I laughed so hard I could hardly breathe, much less whistle. I started revising the parts in question, but since they "permeate" the entire poem, I decided to leave it as is, in its first "draft", for your comedic pleasure. "Toot Dixie" might be a more appropriate title. It took me three reads to make it all the way through without laughing.



Whistle Dixie


Seems we have grown
too self-conscious
to pucker-up-and-blow,
in the street or at the grocery store.

No more Hoosier Sundays,
church lady trumpeting
the walls of Jericho, clutching
a badly bound hymn book,
out-tooting a tea kettle.

My natural-born whistler
throws caution to the wind
and whets his with abandon,
serenading my mornings,
like the scent of all the lilacs in Ohio.

I smile and come to breakfast
like a well-trained pet.



Tess Kincaid
March 2011





pictures courtesy of Google images

more snickety lemon stuff

I've been on a lemon kick this week. After I posted the lemon polenta cake recipe, many readers mentioned having lemon trees, and were looking for new and different ways to use lemons. Well, here is a delicious savory lemon recipe, that's super quick and easy to make.  I don't know about you, but I am always grabbing a rotisserie chicken. Instead of stir-fry or chicken pie, try this for a change.  It's made with egg yolks, so it's not a dish you would want to eat every day, but it is a refreshing treat.  It would also be a great starter for a seafood entree.

Greek Lemon Soup with Chicken

In a large saucepan, bring 6 cups chicken broth to a boil.  Add 1/3 cup orzo and boil until tender, about 8 minutes.  In a bowl, beat 6 egg yolks; slowly whisk in 1 cup of the hot broth. Add the egg mixture to the saucepan and cook over medium heat, stirring until thickened, a minute or two.  Add 1 1/2 cups shredded rotisserie chicken and the juice of one lemon (about 2 tablespoons). Season with freshly grated pepper.  Serves 4.

Fate is like a strange, unpopular restaurant 

filled with odd little waiters who bring you things 

you never asked for and don't always like.

Lemony Snicket

kitchen stories

Kitchen Stories, 2004, is my kind of film; quirky, thoughtful, and bittersweet. It's inspired by a 1950s group of Swedish researchers sent to Norway for a study of kitchen habits of middle-aged bachelors, ultimately  used to design efficient kitchens. The analyst, perched in a hilariously high chair, like a tennis umpire, observes in the corner of the kitchen, under strict instructions not to interact with his cantankerous subject. Eventually, the men break the rules and end up forging a touching relationship.

The quiet, understated humor of this gentle little film, had me giggling at first, then laughing out loud.  Some might see it as an allegory of a totalitarian regime, but I think it's really just a theme of simple human nature and friendship. Do yourself a favor and add this charming flick to your list before winter is over; it's set with a stark, snow-laden backdrop, perfect for this time of year. Wear woolly socks. Eat popcorn. Laugh.