“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Like the weather,” I replied, “grumbly, with bits of flashing fire.”
Raining
3
For Adrienne (and Neil)
When a poet dies
the world curves in a slightly more angular fashion
Flags do not hang at half-mast
marching bands do not
Yet someone
not very well-known
walks a little slower
and contemplates
a heartbeat on paper
No Fudge
Which is probably for the best, because had the leche quemada turned out great (or at all) I would eat it. I know that sounds strange, right? Why cook something if you’re not going to eat it? Good question. My hope of course is that I would cook it and give it away…at which I am sometimes successful, but I usually end up eating way more than I need to.
I enjoy cooking and I love to feed others and sometimes I do that with food.
So I poured out a pan of luscious caramel laced with burnt crystalized bits and now it’s a new day and I get to start all over.
Wonder what I’ll cook up?
Oh Fudge!
Smarty me thought I’d make Mexican burnt milk fudge, aka leche quemada, the traditional way. Whatever that means.
Most of the recipes on the web use condensed milk or sweetened condensed milk, but I found one that uses fresh milk. And the website is in Spanish. Must be authentic right?
Maybe.
At this point I have a big cast iron pot of brown frothy milk and I’ve been at it for almost two hours now.
I was pretty happy with my two cups of milk and four cups of sugar turning a nice caramel color. I was a little unsure of the other pan and its six cups of milk and half a teaspoon of baking soda. Hmmmm. It took longer than I thought to bring it to a boil.
Then, if my translation doesn’t completely suck, I should pour the 6 cups into the now brownish and thick 2 cups. But I hesitated and spooned out about half a cup and dropped it in. Yep, just like I thought. The baking soda milk foamed up and just about doubled the contents. Glad I didn’t pour the whole thing in or I’d STILL be cleaning milk and sugar off the counter, stove, floor, and me.
But spoon by spoon I merged it all and now I’m looking at what appears to be the foam from a really good root beer. Or Guinness.
I’m not sure what I’m going to end up with. I may be dumping it out in the pasture later. I may go into town and let it sit while I have coffee with friends and then dinner. It may turn out to be fantastic and I start a side business as none of the Mexican restaurants in town sell it.
Like most things in life, its going to be what its going to be and maybe I’ll like it and maybe I won’t; maybe I’ll eat it and maybe I won’t, but I learn a little more about my cooking skills and recognize my poor translation skills.
Ce la vie say the old folks, which goes to show you never can tell.
The Kingdom is Now
Found on My Porch
I was singing this little Taize song, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom” which is from the Gospel of Luke 23:42 and thinking about Advent because it is. And because it is Advent, most things that come into my view get processed through the lens of waiting in hope and expectation, as did the Taize verse.
It’s one of the criminals being crucified alongside Jesus who spoke those words to which Jesus replied, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.” Today. Today is the Kingdom, it’s already here, I sometimes choose living in my own little world instead of the Kingdom. And my world is so small. My world is full of doubt and worry, what ifs and regrets. The Kingdom is full of hope and joy, saturated with Love.
So during this time of Advent, when I’m looking for the Cosmic Christ, hoping to see God in each face and place I’ll try to remember to live in Today – the palace of the Kingdom.
Opening Night
Overture, curtain, lights! This is it, tonight’s the night! And oh, what night it is…on with the show this is it!
I hope you imagined Bugs Bunny when you read that, or at least some character from the cartoon because my head was singin’ as I was writin’!
This is my first night as Box Office Manager at Appalachian State University‘s Valborg Theatre and I’m rather excited.
Years have passed since any involvement on my part with the theatre, and even though this is not the side I’m most accustomed to working, it is still nice to be back. Now, of course, my mind is conniving ways to get back on stage which is tremendously tricky as I work every night the theatre is open.
But it is nice to know the bug still lurks deep within. We’ll see.
For tonight, I’ll learn the ropes from the previous manager, who is kind enough to continue guiding me as I wander into this new arena. So the show must go on and I will go right along with it.
Turn That Head Around
I am tired of complaining, tired of aching shoulders and head. Tired of the lack of desire to punch buttons creating words and I haven’t even started yet.
Habit, habit, habit work it until it works for you I preach, yet I pay no attention to my own words.
Dinner With Betty
Had the loveliest time tonight. Myself, along with my dear friend Betty, a full seventy-nine and a half years young, together with my thirty-one years of age step-son Ryan dined al fresco in Boone, NC tonight at the Red Onion.
Awaiting our meal the conversation was casual and traveled from topic to topic, then Betty began to tell the story of Mary’s cat. Crazy Mary, as she is known privately between Betty and me, made several phone calls to Betty yesterday concerning the declining health of her cat. The story changed and with each call Betty struggled to determine what exactly was her role in Mary’s cat saga. Mary needed a ride to the vet to have her cat put down, but then another call involved Medicaid of Betty to which Betty exclaimed, “I didn’t know cats were covered under Medicaid!”
“Well, when I figured out she didn’t need me to give her a ride,” Betty continued “I took the note ‘kill Mary’s cat’ off the calendar.”
Ryan and I laughed until tears ran and other diners glanced to see what they might be missing.
“Well,” she continued, “I just couldn’t leave it up there, what if somebody saw it?”
Yes indeed, what if somebody saw Betty’s note, “Kill Mary’s cat.”
Another Day
Another tiny bit of writing. Nothing to say and all day to say it. Waiting to get my space together. My “writer‘s space” so I can sit in my “writer’s chair” during my “writer’s time” and say something worthwhile. Meanwhile, I’ll do laundry and play poker on Facebook. Excuses, one after the other come to my mind. I’ve even mopped the floor in my prevention attack. It’s fear based, and I know that, but I also need to work through it and write what dribbles out of my weak brain.
Yes please, I’d love some cheese with this whine.
dawnshepler 