I actually prefer the leaves of Dusty Miller to the flowers which are little yellow clumps that are rather non-assuming.
For Cee’s FOTD
Fleeced
If you simply must explore
to find the golden fleece of yore,
as have other fools galore,
I fear that its discovery
is something that is not to be
by the likes of you or me.
The point, I fear, is simply moot.
If you are at all astute,
you’ll realize there is no loot.
Your hopes, I know, will surely clash
with the fact there is no cash,
for legends often make us rash.
But I fear I must explain
lives searching for an unearned gain
turn into lives just spent in vain.
And that, in short, is just inane!
Prompt words today are fleece, moot, discovery, galore and clash. Image by Georgi Kalaydzhiev on Unsplash.
Liquid Yolk
He holds the hot egg in one hand, turning it as he taps it gently with the knife edge in a perfect horizontal line, and lifts the top off like a skull cap to reveal the molten golden lava of the half-congealed yolk. It spills out in a river as he moves his spoon around the shell to remove the white in one solid unblemished half-oval—shining, still steaming from the boiling water it has so recently been surrounded by.
The egg rests on the square of toast and is soon joined by its equally perfect other half, mashed
onto the toast to be lightly sprinkled with salt, dusted with black pepper. Then, the final perfect ingredient to this gracefully executed breakfast favorite—one delicate sprinkle of cider vinegar from the tiny stoppered glass vinegar cruet and the neat slicing with fork and knife, the lifting to lips, the dabbing of yolk from the plate with another triangle lifted from the toast plate.
The final smacking of lips and the long satisfied sigh as he places his knife and fork across his empty plate. My father, a large man with work-hardened hands, is like an artisan in his neat and graceful maneuvering of the utensils, his napkin blotting any errant egg from his lips before raising, at last, the coffee cup to his lips to wash it all down.
Soft boiled eggs, toast and coffee. Bright yellow, white and brown are the colors of the morning as the school bell rings and I am off in a mad dash to slide into my seat in my schoolroom across the street before its last peal. This memory of my father eating soft boiled eggs was early morning poetry that I have not forgotten half a century and more later. It is the little things, the small beauties, that stick like liquid yolk to our memories.
For dVerse Poets prompt: food
My father put vinegar on everything from cabbage to eggs. I loved to watch him eat, for it was at the table that he was transformed from a hard-working farmer-rancher with wheat in his pants cuffs to a cultured gentleman with impeccable table manners. In this prose poem I try to replicate my father’s artistry in disassembling a soft-boiled egg. The cruet above is one of the few objects I claimed when I went to pack up our house after my father’s death. I still use it for cider vinegar, and think of my dad every time I open the cupboard and see it on the shelf.
When Forestwood mentioned Nasi Goreng in her blog, it suddenly turned on a lightbulb in my head, because lately I find that I’m tired of everything I eat–even my favorites–and the mention of Nasi Goreng triggered a craving for a dish I haven’t had in thirty years or more. Luckily, two of my favorite cookbooks are Pearl Buck’s Oriental Cookbook and To All My Grandchildren, Lessons in Indonesian Cooking by Leonie Samuel-Hool, and I knew that they both have recipes for Nasi Goreng. I was surprised, however, at how they varied from the traditional Indonesian recipe to Pearl Buck’s evidently anglicized version. I leave it up to you to determine which you prefer. I for one am going to challenge my chef friend Brad to a cookdown to see which wins the crown.
Luckily, both have recipes for how to make all the spice blends and sauces such as kecap manis (sweet soy sauce) you could probably purchase ready-made in a gourmet or specialty grocery store, but if you can’t find them, I’ll publish the recipes for them and if you are lucky, The same goes for Dadar Iris, which is essentially a little omelet. I’ll even publish the recipe and story behind Beancake, Bees and Beans. Yes, a real dish in Leonie’s cookbook. I’ve met her and have an autographed copy, because her children owned an incredible Indonesian restaurant in San Rafael, California. One year on her birthday, they constructed a memorial to her on the wall of the restaurant next to the door and customers paid to have brass plates with their names inscribed on them to honor her. My friend Lee had one made for me. I wonder if I’m still there!
Click on photos to enlarge and read recipes!
Bill of Rights For the Human Race
With this particular virus threatening the whole world,
in what particular variant will it be unfurled?
We dose ourselves repeatedly but what of those who don’t?
The threat seems constantly renewed thanks to those who won’t.
They will not see it’s provident that every person tries
to conquer our joint enemy before the whole world dies.
Human after human continues to spread spatters
as though the future of the world hardly even matters.
Unvaccinated and unmasked, they refuse to bend.
Where do the rights of others start and where do their rights end?
Prompt words today are spatter, whole, particular, provident and dose.
All paintings by Betty Peterson. Click on photos of paintings to enlarge. The reflection of my hands superimposed over the hand in her painting was purely accidental, but I love the implication of our work being combined in this piece. R.I.P. Betty, friend of twenty years. The one sketch and watercolor of me was done in a small bar/restaurant in Tequila as we were waiting for my broken-down van to be fixed on our way to the U.S. The other painting of me she gave to me as a surprise, using a photo I had in my blog. She added Morrie, not realizing this was a photo of me in my wedding dress in 1987. Love how Morrie was suddenly transported back in time.
Conversing with Betty
You are the first person I see every morning—
there on my wall and hanging from my curtain rods––
your heart and talent painted onto watercolor paper,
matted, framed and preserved under glass.
Your freed spirit spreads out into my room like memory––
the sorties to find pre-Columbian treasures,
van breakdowns on the road to Tequila and road trips to the border,
shared secrets, successes and heartbreaks.
My friend, your life expired while mine still runs its course,
but you have left the women you gave birth to
behind you on paper and on canvas.
Their eyes follow me upon my rising, look over me in my sleep.
In them, I retain the best of you
here in my heart and on my walls,
grateful to have you still around me,
conversing in our favorite language.
For the Pull Up A Seat Photo Challenge
Be Careful What You Wish For
The sky was dark and oorie the day of the premiere,
and approaching the red carpet, the star expressed a fear
her gown hem would be sullied as she passed through the morass
and the tabloids would just note the stains instead of her fine ass.
“Please tell them not to mention my less-than-perfect garb,
she spat out at her agent in her customary barb.
And her look was sullen as she left her limousine,
less glamorous than that depicted on the movie screen.
And as she slogged her way through puddles to the gala scene,
through photographers and writers from every magazine,
of course they all reported on that look of arch disdain
instead of any mention of her garment’s spreading stain.
Prompt words are oorie, premiere, disdain, morass and arch. Image by Raychan on Unsplash.
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 