Happy 90th Birthday Ellsworth Kelly!

Jennie's Grandson

When I started this blog a few years ago, it was originally intended to be– for the most part– a food and wine blog, with an occasional meandering thought on other things that interested me. As time went on il fm evolved into something so much more. In it's current form– it is as the blog description suggests– a place for all my obsessions.

So the other day, what was supposed to be a straight forward email to friends containing a recipe for pizza dough– ended up being a several paragraph forum on flour type, kneading technique, and the necessary tools to build a first rate pizza– laced with a slight dose of snark and NY pizza chauvinism. I did eventually get to the recipe....

The subject line of the email was pizza as I see it. It was received with good humor as it was intended, and it was suggested I perhaps start a food blog discussing food related ideas as I see it. It was sort of an ah-ha moment. It's pretty well known that I regularly go on (and on and on...) about some meal I had, or plan to have, or wish I had, as well as wax on about pantry items and the latest charcuterie fetish.

I know what you're thinking: Great... another food blog on the web...fantastic!
Typically I'd agree with the sentiment, but the fact is I do go on (and on and on...) about these things and hey, why not get it down on paper– so to speak.

If you've been following along with this blog, you might recall an earlier post about me spending a lot of my younger years in one of the smallest kitchens in Brooklyn at my grandmother's side. Her influence on what was to become my culinary psyche is everlasting. For that reason, in an effort to share the conversation she started with me a long time ago– and with your continued indulgence– I offer Jennie's Grandson!

a friday haiku

no x-rays necessary

 yellow bus bouncing

through the air my child flies

ice tray is empty

In Celebration Of

Jack Gilbert  (1925-2012)

Horses at Midnight Without a Moon Our heart wanders lost in the dark woods. Our dream wrestles in the castle of doubt. But there's music in us. Hope is pushed down but the angel flies up again taking us with her. The summer mornings begin inch by inch while we sleep, and walk with us later as long-legged beauty through the dirty streets. It is no surprise that danger and suffering surround us. What astonishes is the singing. We know the horses are there in the dark meadow because we can smell them, can hear them breathing. Our spirit persists like a man struggling through the frozen valley who suddenly smells flowers and realizes the snow is melting out of sight on top of the mountain, knows that spring has begun. In Umbria Once upon a time I was sitting outside the cafe watching twilight in Umbria when a girl came out of the bakery with the bread her mother wanted. She did not know what to do. Already bewildered by being thirteen and just that summer a woman, she now had to walk past the American. But she did fine. Went by and around the corner with style, not noticing me. Almost perfect. At the last instant could not resist darting a look down at her new breasts. Often I go back to that dip of her head when people talk about this one or that one of the great beauties. More about Jack Gilbert's life and death can be read here.

It's Election Day

It was a great scene this morning at our local polling place– the Kennett Friend's Meeting House! I arrived twenty minutes before the polls opened– in hopes of being voter #1– and ended up being behind twelve other early birds! By time I voted there were forty or so more people on line behind me. Everyone was clearly happy, engaged, and proud to be part of this incredible– truly American– event in spite of the ever present cynicism, vitriol, and straight up goofiness! 

Speaking of which, I would like to clarify something– contrary to what cynical right-wing extremists and their candidate may spew– HOPE is indeed a strategy! A strategy to attain a far more greater goal; To treat respectfully those whom which we may not agree. To approach each other with civility and empathy. It's the golden rule folks! We've all learned it as children, and we all teach it to our children in kind. In the last dozen or so years politicians have done a great job broadening the chasm between– simple policy differences and respect and common-sense– by vilifying their opponents as well as their opponent's constituents (that would be YOU!) 

OK– politically speaking we are a divided nation– I get it! But after the two last presidential cycles there doesn't seem to be any light at the end of this tunnel– especially beyond the current silly season. At least half the nation will be pissed at the other half– regardless of the outcome of the election. In fact if the election doesn't turn out the way I HOPE it will, I plan on being very pissed! If the election does turn out like I hope it will, I will still probably be pissed because the chance of ending up with the same snapshot of the current government is quite good and I don't think for a second John Boehner and his band of not so merry-men will be any less obstructive during a lame duck session of the White House than they were the previous four years! 

I hope if you're reading this– I'm preaching to the choir. If I'm not...then– with all due respect– I civilly ask you to kiss my ass! Mi scusi!

During the next day or so– if you're celebrating or gawdfawbid cowering in despondency, take a minute to read this wonderful poem by Elizabeth Alexander. 

There's always HOPE and it should be part of any strategy!

Praise Song for the Day

A Poem for Barack Obama’s Presidential Inauguration


Each day we go about our business,
walking past each other, catching each other’s
eyes or not, about to speak or speaking.

All about us is noise. All about us is
noise and bramble, thorn and din, each
one of our ancestors on our tongues.

Someone is stitching up a hem, darning
a hole in a uniform, patching a tire,
repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere,
with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum,
with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky.
A teacher says, Take out your pencils. Begin.

We encounter each other in words, words
spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed,
words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark
the will of some one and then others, who said
I need to see what’s on the other side.

I know there’s something better down the road.
We need to find a place where we are safe.
We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

Say it plain: that many have died for this day.
Sing the names of the dead who brought us here,
who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges,

picked the cotton and the lettuce, built
brick by brick the glittering edifices
they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle, praise song for the day.
Praise song for every hand-lettered sign,
the figuring-it-out at kitchen tables.

Some live by love thy neighbor as thyself,
others by first do no harm or take no more
than you need. What if the mightiest word is love?

Love beyond marital, filial, national,
love that casts a widening pool of light,
love with no need to pre-empt grievance.

In today’s sharp sparkle, this winter air,
any thing can be made, any sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp,

praise song for walking forward in that light.

Born This Day

Mark Rothko (1903-1970)

Random Act of Poetry

Fall, leaves, fall...

Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;

Lengthen night and shorten day;

Every leaf speaks bliss to me

Fluttering from the autumn tree.

I shall smile when wreaths of snow

Blossom where the rose should grow;

I shall sing when night’s decay

Ushers in a drearier day.

 

Emily Jane Bronte