so he said to her here here

she's a vagabon via small town, america.
a little place, a place he couldn't pin point on a map or a globe.

she wore her clothes loose across her loose stance
in long legs and arms and fingers and curled up toes in long socks.

he fancied her, heard her voice on the radio,
her words penetrating his mood.

licking his lips he learned the words.
singing along poorly in the car on the way to some old friend's house.

and there she was, this singing vagabon.
and so he said here, here, little american girl, here.

danced her to the end of the night and tied her up
in his arms. her hair a beautiful, tangled mess.

gone the next day to a festival up north.
she left him bare among friends and sheets.

and a little love note with her number on it,
written in crayon on the tenner in his wallet.

it took him 6 hours to find it,
but the coffee tasted sweeter after 5 hours of greif and 1 of missery.

here, here, he called her up and made her promise to see him again.
here, here, she said to him, here we go.

unique bonds

although many others
have loved her before
a popular city

you make her yours
take part of her
and make her home

although she has lived
for the sake of so many
other men before you

you love her
and make her yours
like you would a city

take a particular path
that no one else has taken
and make it yours

bond with her in new
interesting patterns
so she will love you

your city, your woman
bond with others
that love her too

make her yours more
than theirs and love
this is a unique affair

although many other unique affairs
have happened here before you
love her and she will love you in return

homemade brandy snaps



Ryan asked for brandy snaps for Christmas, and luckily there was a recipe in my 500 Cookies book!  They came out pretty well I think ^_____^

happy christmas from three unhappy christmas cats!

my dear friend ashraf got alli, rowdy and jack little hats.  they didn't like them very much, but i love them!

ryan's first novel for sale on lulu.com!!!!

review of chalk on dreadcentral.com

the dryer sheet cling

for megan

 the sofa smells like fabric softener
because you washed the cushion covers

after i got mad at you for spilling beer
watching the match with your mates

we cuddled up like children on the sofa
falling asleep watching myth busters on telly

our nostrils flaring to take in the artificial
"rainy day" smell you infused with the laundry

and i think, as we kiss, that maybe
i should forgive you for spilling that beer

this is still a poetry blog

^___^

all out of 1-UPs

a poem for Poptart

jack and i are cuddled up
on the redder of the two red sofas

with pillows and blankets
all piled up around us

he's purring and i'm falling
into the shadows of sleep

but before long ryan wakes us
it's time for bed

he's all out of 1-UPs

tingo neighbors

Tingo (Easter Island): a person who borrows things from a friend’s house one by one until there is nothing left.

he came over the first time
just to introduce himself
as the neighborhood watch dog
and regular gossip hound

we served him some tea
and he took a big piece of cake
wrapped up with some china,
and an over sized silver fork

on his second visit he asked to borrow
a copy of the completed collection
of Sherlock Holmes stories
and a little lamp to read by

over time we lent him a spade
the tall ladder and some gloves
to help clear out his gutters
before the heavy snowfall of winter

we noticed that our old boat
which was left in the yard
was removed from its trailer
and put in the pond across the road

he borrowed dvds and even old vhs
and had to borrow a player and tv
to enjoy the films he borrowed
and while he was at it, the microwave for popcorn

we lent him a set of shelves
to keep his new collection
of our dvds
organized and neat looking

he made us some cake
from our own cake pans
using our spatula and spoon
and all our flour and eggs

such cake was served
on our fine china
with our family's silver cutlery
at our table in  his house

he borrowed everything
including our shed, our cat,
the hose and the fridge
but we had to draw the line

when he asked to borrow mom

translitorate

A Poem for Jenni

last night he tried to slip Rohypnol
in my Baja Hurricane Blast

but the pill didn't dissolve well
in the icy blue beverage

the little white date rape attempt
labored and fizzed and exposed itself

and the man who i'd thought
about giving it up for anyway

was now wearing my clutch's
channel logo on his forehead

Inspired by the words of a digital translator:

"Still sleepy I wondered .. "What makes you tonight ...?" and I have stumbled absurd thoughts in his head. by lobotomy. load? rhythm? wrought? Tonight we will do all."

Leslie's Birthday Cake - Gluten Free Lemon and Jasmine

i just started working at a little Oils and Vinegars shop in Mashpee called Gustare and i already feel like a member of the Gustare family. the women i get to work with--Leslie and Linda so far--are adorable and friendly and, most importantly, foodies. Catherine and Dave, the co-owners of the store, are open minded and open hearted. i am having so much fun there.

one of my favorite aspects of the new job, though, is that i can bring my baking experiments in to work again (i used to bring all sorts of oddities into the WRC to feed those hungry undergrads).

today was Leslie's birthday. so... birthday cake! but Leslie doesn't eat gluten, so i had to do a little searching for a cake recipe that used almond meal (because i have lots of almond meal at my disposal for macarons). i also wanted to find a recipe that used olive oil instead of butter because...ah, i work in an olive oil shop. that's kind of obvious.

right so, almond meal and olive oil... not a particularly common combination it was seem, but i honestly have no idea why not. this little cake i adapted from a french recipe i found on foodgawker.com, turned out great!

the original recipe (which you should put through the google translator for a laugh) called for lemon verbena leaves and grapefruit pulp. you'll see i've made a few significant alterations to my recipe.

note, you will need food scales for this recipe, and i recommend using a 6" round cake pan with a non-stick liner.

ingredients

• the zest of two large lemons
• 150g of course sugar
• 2 teaspoons of loose leaf tea -- i used Chinese Jasmine tea in Leslie's cake
• 200g of almond flour
• 2 large eggs
• 25g of Whole Fruit Lemon Extra Virgin Olive Oil from Gustare Oils and Vinegars.

method

using a food processor, mix the sugar and tea leaves. add both eggs and mix until well blended. add lemon zest and mix until blended again.

move egg and sugar mixture to a large bowl. add almond flour and stir with a spoon or spatula until completely incorporated.

slowly add olive oil while stirring.

the final mixture will be very wet.

pour into 6" round pan -- i didn't need to butter and sugar the pan, though if you don't have a non-stick liner, you may want to take this precaution.

bake at 325 degrees F for 35 to 45 minutes, until cake is a light brown on top. i baked the cake at 300 degrees F for 30 minutes in my super duper convection oven.

let cool, then top with a lemon glaze and sprinkles! (but be careful, not all sprinkles are gluten free!)

this comes easy

color recognition reduction
to selective shades of light

and sound motivation
by your favorite artificial sweetener

seperated from the milkly
immersion of antioxidant ruffles

under the spoon and kettle
brushed with air from a friend

her breath reminds us of winter
warm days gessoed and framed.

the sneeze that changed the world

a poem for Mathilda

they say the world is getting smaller.
are people getting bigger?

someday we will be so big
that a sneeze could change the world.

if you can't run fast enough, they'll eat you

a poem for ling

we train for two hours every day
the art of straight-back-running

because if you can't run fast enough
they will eat you.

moments

we all have moments of weakness.  i do my best not to share them all with the world on facebook, and my blog.  sometimes, though, i get caught up.  the constant updating of status updates and tweets compounded by a desire to reach out to others for comfort makes it so hard to resist pouring our hearts out onto the computer screen for everyone to see.  in another time, we would have reached out to the people around us, or called someone for confidential guidence.  the ease of use and available audience of hundreds draws us out though, doesn't it? 

i'd prefer a real cup of tea with a loved one, a good old fashion cry.  instead, i get dinasour jokes.  and though the joke is witty and cute, and still makes me crack a smile through a cloud of self-doubt, a depressed state, its delight is fleeting.

there. will. be. tacos.

a poem for beth

you said there would be tacos
and i believed you, but you're a liar.

a big, fat liar!

i thought we'd indulge
in the crunching of shells,

oh, but no! 

and what do i come to find
in the place where my tacos should be?

go on, have a guess...

not tacos, no, but a big greasy burger
and a plate full of sweet potato fries!?

aghast, am i!

you didn't even have the decency
to dress up your cat, in a taco suit.

disgraceful, indeed!

prompt, this

a poem for drook

i would send you roses
if i knew your address

twice more I wept

for Joshua

i cried for you
your shipwrecked fleet
and the sand
that burns the bottoms
of your naked feet

and again for you
your torn main mast
the beating heart
of a glory gone
and past

the keys fell out on a monday afternoon

for tortilla

the keys fell out
on a monday afternoon

from a pocket of a small
japanese girl's skirt pocket.

now i know what you're thinking,
first of all, a skirt with pockets?

they do make those, i wouldn't lie
about something so practical.

and second of all, isn't
"small japanese" a little redundant?

well, yes, it is slightly,
but these are just details.

you need to start paying attention
to the real meat of the story: these keys.

they keys fell out of her pocket
on a clear-skied monday afternoon

and were later seen on tuesday
by a huddled over old man

the old man could have picked them up
or reported the sighting to the police

but he just stared at them
as he hobbled by with his cane.

what became of the keys after that
we haven't got the foggiest idea.

our princess is in another castle

for matt

the princess you are looking for
is in another castle, sir.

oh, don't believe me do you?
just think about it for a minute...

would we keep a princess
in a big dump like this?

the walls are crawling
with owl-faced limpets

and the rooms are as cold
and smelly as a yeit's armpit.

do you really think a princess
would live in a place like this?

chocolate chocolate macarons

rowdy

seashells on a mountain

a poem for adelaide

we were bigger then
staring down at the world

served millionairs' bars
and hot milky tea for breakfast

by long legged brunets
in ruffled uniforms and heels

speculating the odds
of one terrorist related to another

holding back laughter
at unhappy weddings

and spitting out seeds
at the local merchants' stands

all the while taking for granted
our uniquely granted positions

angels abreast mountain tops
turned to rocks and dust and coral

the ending of the page

a poem for brian

everyone knows that the page is flat
and if you go too far, you'll fall right off

but they've invented endless scrolling now
so photo bloggers can let go and go and go

those reckless bitches

i did steal this line from a book so

for michelle

Part 1: Corpse Lasagna

the recipe calls
for unicorn hooves

and octopus suckers
baked at 350 for half an hour

Part 2: Miraculous Infinite Accidents

i burned my wrists
on the oven door

which is why i dropped the whole tray
of mythical creature corpse lasagna

so we're having bread
and salad for dinner

Part 3: How Do You Explain the Dead Unicorns

i didn't know what else
to do with the bodies

the recipe only called
for the hooves

Runner Up: No One Ever Explained the Octopuses
 
you act as though
you've never seen one before

i like cheese

for johnny

Barry the beast of Brighton beach
met a sweet babe named Cheeky Cheddar

and they started dating and making plans
but it all went sour when Cheddar discovered

that Barry the beast of Brighton beach
was wanton with a Wenslydale behind her wedge

then things got much worse when she then found out
that Barry was going steady with a Stilton every Sunday

and for an excuse all Barry could say
to his extra sharp lover

when she called him out
on all his whey-ward love affairs

was "i can't help it honey,
i like cheese"

aardvark sleeves and the virulent bees

for scott

in the land of tragic coagulations
where reboots pumble the innocent

there lived a wise old sleeve
wide at the wrist and elegant

it was carved out of the finest hairs
off of an aardvark's soft underbelly

and gently it spoke of horrible futures
for the flying ants of casablanca minor

but another prophecy worries us today
that of the mystical bees of yore

the legendary sleeve once waved it so
that all bees might one day unite

to form a giant mechanical beast
and ravage the native lands of the east

we have heard from the news bots
that this proof has come to pass

but no harm will come to the owls
or the turtles of beagle island

because our top scientists
wear sweet designer lab coats

and solved the puzzle of wading in the ocean
without getting wet up to the knees

desire for change

a poem for angela

the alarm sounds at 5:45am
she needs to leave the house by 6:45
to beat the heavy morning traffic

it takes 23 seconds to pull a sweater
over her head and push her arms through
and 16 seconds to take it off

there are not enough sweaters
in her walk in closet
to make her late for work

but once she finds the right sweater
she has to match the rest of the outfit
and that could take all morning

beguiling sea beast with spoon of lipids lost in tanzania

a poem for Dan

they're called beguiling sea beasts
because there are no seas in tanzania

but we have no idea where they got the spoons
or what poor animal the spoonfuls of fat are from

lenses without caps

a poem for jason

so what you're saying, said the man in the overalls,
is that no matter what size cap i buy, it can be fitted to my dome?

the man behind the counter concurred
that every hat could be adjusted to fit perfectly on any person's head.

so what you mean is that if i wanted to buy, he said, say
this cowboy hat with the blue stitches that you could fit it to my head?

the man behind the counter concurred
that every hat could be adjusted to fit perfectly on the man's head.

the man in overalls told the man behind the counter
that he would like to purchase a hat, if it could in fact be fitted to his head.

the man behind the counter concurred
that any hat could be fitted. 

it would take two business days.

cheers to 6 great years

Snoqualmie Falls, WA

where Ryan and I went on our honeymoon in 2004

♥

melody over madness

a poem for tara

we're a new breed of weed croppers
cutting our edges on dull days

and filing away cherry pits
by weight rather than color

drooling in our sleep
we're like cats with bad teeth

and miracle grow only seeds
our ambition to dance

singing melodies of chaos
over the fire in our lungs

a field filled with wonder
or the madness of summer

here thar be splinters

a poem for JM

under the deck,
thar be splinters there.

inside an old boat,
thar be splinters there.

on an old picnic table,
thar be splinters there.

on the floor of a factory,
thar be splinters there.

inside flower boxes and window ledges,
thar be splinters there.

between book shelves painted or not,
thar be splinters there.

in a carpenter's shop,
thar be splinters there for sure.

and in my poor heart,
here thar be splinters too.

40 sheets, if you please

for liz

at the port of pirates
big and burly

sailors come and go
with the tide

dropping booty on booze
and burgers and babes

but not all are out
for a quick romp, you see

and not all are
so brutal, so manly or unshaven

some pirates are nice,
polite little men

who say please
and thank you

when picking up
their dry cleaning

but alas, those are rare,
the pirates who care

about fresh linens
and clean shower curtains

so keep your ears open
the next time you're there

for a little pirate fella
asking, "40 sheets, if you please"

and buy him a pint
of a low calorie beer

chafing on a sunday

for ryan

saturday nights are sexy,
but sunday morningss can be rough.

i forgot my umbrella

for jenni

ellie the elephant left for work
at seven am on wednesday morning

waterproof wellies covered each toe
and a pretty hat reached over each ear

she was protected from the rain
from top to bottom in fashionable wares

but unlike the saying, elephants can forget
even the most essential rainy day accessories

zombie dinner party

a poem for maggie

the chef waded in to the dining room
and the smell of garlic suffocated the guests

he came out of the kitchen to address a complaint
from the swarm of guests awaiting their meals

black ties, pumps and stunning gems, unimpressed
by the perfumes disguising the scent of the meat.

they all wanted their meat raw and undressed
but the chef insisted in his gourmet standards

so the guests all agreed, right then and there,
that the main course should change

from made by the chef, to made of the chef.

without

i have been completely without poetic ponderings for a few weeks now.  but i still try.

Ryan's book is complete and FOR SALE!

my husband, Ryan, has been working hard and pouring his heart into his first big writing project since 2005.  his collection of short stories, named Tropes, is available for sale on Lulu.com.  pick up a copy today for less than $20 (i'm including the shipping here), and let us know what you think of it!

ryan is really interested in knowing which stories people like, and which ones they don't.  there's an email address in the book.  please, we encourage you to buy, read, and respond.  i mean, how many times do we get the chance (outside of blogs) to give significant feedback to an author or artists and know that he or she will actually read our replies and take them into consideration while working on his or her next project?  especially someone we don't now personally.  Tropes is a dialogue between writer and reader as much as any blog space we can provide.

Tropes by Ryan Acheson for sale at Lulu.com

looks at perfect

our lives are perfect, you say.
then why do we cry at night?

the girl that will become

i am straining my voice
to be heard

i am the voice of my generation

i am going to be famous
i just haven't chosen my medium yet

Mohave, the Desert Queen

“We’re going way back, there was this guy, lived in my neighborhood in Queens where I grew up, called him The Prophet. His real name was Frankie. Big guy, brawny guy, you know?” Ad puffed up his chest and squared his shoulders to demonstrate “big guy”. “Anyway, he wasn’t just a hunk of flesh, Frankie, he was called The Prophet because he had these visions. Now, I don’t know if he was taking something or just naturally fucked up, but when he talked about his dreams, he was prophetic about it, you know what I mean? Like, all dramatic and eloquent and elaborate and detailed and… like deep. He was a seriously good story teller and he had this way of sharing information that made it feel epically important.”

He sipped the too-hot coffee and burnt his tongue, “shit that’s hot.”

“So did The Prophet tell you something that you want to tell me?” Mohave got impatient with Ad’s stories. Unlike this prophet of his, Ad’s flare for detail was often overzealous, unorganized and unnecessary. At the best of times, she could tune him out. They’ve been friends long enough that he couldn’t fault her for it either.

“Chill out, sister, I’m getting to it. I’m serious, this has to do with you. I’m dead fucking serious here.” He took a sip of her diet coke without asking. She just watched, lowering her shoulders a little out of frustration.

“I have better things I could be doing right now.”

He smiled his trust-me-sister-you’re-gonna-fucking-love-this-shit smile. His bottom teeth were tightly packed on one side, giving his grin a half-cocked quirky, kinda cuteness. And as ever, she fell prey to it. They both knew it too. He smiled wider, she rolled her eyes. “Get on with it then” she rolled her hand at the wrist in front of his face, gesturing the pace she’d prefer.

“You know the thing I like best about you, Mo?” He stared stupidly, expecting her to answer.

She stared stupidly back, expecting him to answer. Then frustrated, she slammed her fist into the table and began to pull herself out of the diner booth when Ad put his pale white fingers against her desert-burnt wrist. “You don’t take any of my bullshit too seriously. I like that about you.”

“At least you admit it’s bullshit, then.” She sat back down and took her diet coke back and took a sip.

“I like that you don’t take what I say too seriously. I know I never have to worry about you worrying about me, you know? That’s most of the time anyway. This time, this is serious and I need you to listen, okay?” Sitting back he licked his lips and looked over the dirty table at her.

“Don’t give me your gangsta dealing face, Ad, I’m not making any deals with you. I’m not…”

Ad lent forward on the table to cut her off. No grin. No smirk. No tongue and no cheek. He looked her deep down. She could feel his heart pounding from across the empty plate of ketchup-soaked fries and it sent a wave of shivers down her spine. “Fine.” She crossed her arms and sat up in the booth attentively. “What did your prophet prophesize, then?”

“Before I tell you what The Prophet told me, I have to tell you about this dream I had the other night when I stayed over your place, remember last Thursday, when we drank those sick rum and coke jobs that Telly made? That was the worst drink I’ve ever had.”

She flared her nostrils as she breathed out through them, making a soft huffing noise; like a flameless dragon, he thought.

“Okay, okay. The dream, right? I was walking down this really straight road in the desert. There were double yellow lines on the road and to my right, I think, there was this huge mesa plateau thing, right? Anyway, it was like where I imagine you grew up, in the desert. So I was walking down this road and there was someone behind me. He was huge! I guess he was following me. He was 100 yards behind me, or some distance like that. I don’t really know distances that well anyway. So we’re walking and I’m itching to get away from this guy when all of a sudden this hot red mustang blurs past and there’s a cloud of red smoke from all the clay and dust and stuff. I felt myself choking on it.

“I thought that was going to be the end of the dream. I actually thought, in the dream, right, this is the end of the dream. But it wasn’t. I heard a THUD!” For dramatic effect, Ad slammed his palms down on the table top and spooked the elderly couple walking past. The old woman shook her head disapprovingly at him and kept on walking past.

“Sorry. So, thud, right? Then I could see the car in the distance. I really wanted to get away from this guy behind me so I hauled ass and ran for the car. Guess who was driving the thing?” he grinned and lent back.

“That’s a hard one, Ad, me.”

“Yeah, you were. You blew out a tire. That’s where the thud came from, obviously. I catch up with you. You’re changing the tire, cool as ice, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“I help get the blew out into the trunk and get in the car with you and as we drove off I realized that the guy was gone. But then I also realized who he was…”

“The Prophet.” She played along with his pantomime story telling style for the sake of momentum.

“Yep.”

He stopped. Mohave lent forward, widening her eyes in astonishment that he’d be content with “yep” as an ending to a story with absolutely no bearing on anything other than Ad’s own admiration for his vocabulary. “Okay, I’m leaving now.” She got up, took a twenty out of her jeans’ pocket and shuffled out of the booth while Ad mumbled something about visions and symbols. “Forget it, Ad, you’re full of shit. You’re wasting my time. I don’t have time for cute shit.”

“I haven’t finished. Jesus, Mohave, you need to learn how to be patient.” He followed her out of the diner and onto the soggy streets of the Lower East Side. “Mo, please just listen to my whole story, it’s worth your time, I swear. Please.” He ran after her pleading, grabbing her arm to pull himself up to her side. “You walk too fast.”

“You’re too short.”

“Fuck you, I’m taller than you by at least four inches.”

Mohave stopped short and turned to face her friend. “Okay, are you going to follow me around and tell me how important this story is, or are you going to man-up and tell me whatever it is you need to tell me?”

He stopped a little ahead of her, not prepared for her quick stop. “Yeah, I’m going to tell you. But I planned it all out, so you have to listen to the whole story, okay? Please?” He pulled out his best desperate expression which reminded her of the sincerity he’d shown earlier in the diner.

She wrapped her arm around his and began walking them towards China Town.

“That was the whole dream, I mean, everything that happened. But there were some strange feelings in it, you know? Like, when I woke up, I had all these emotions pumping through my veins. It was… I felt…” he swallowed and looked over at her, his friend, his angel, and she didn’t even know it. “When I woke up I remembered something The Prophet told me when I was a kid. I didn’t understand it then, but it’s really important now.”

She looked back at him and withheld her urge to provoke the rest of the story out of him.

Ad looked down at the ground and slowed down to a stop, taking Mo with him. “He told me once that he had a vision of me with a beautiful girl. No, he said woman. He said he saw my wife. He described her to me.” Ad looked over at Mohave, the desert queen. “He described you, Mo.”

She lifted an eyebrow. He could tell she didn’t quite get it. His felt his heart thud, thud, thud, up against the ring box in his coat pocket. He pulled it out and watched as she realized.

“Please don’t say no, okay?”

“What are you doing, Andrew?”

“Just, please,” he closed his eyes and lowered himself down onto one knee. He looked and felt in pain. “Please, Mohave, will you marry me?” He flipped open the ring case and diverted his eyes, afraid of her response.

He anticipated a slap across the face, but it never came. He opened his eyes. There, standing, towering over him was the most beautiful girl in the city. She was crying, wearing the cheap ring he got from the pawn shop below her apartment. “Way to go, Ad. You made me screw up my make up.” She tightened her jaw and used the inside of her t-shirt to clear away some of the running mascara. “Cheap shit.”

He stood up staring at her again, in awe of the size of his own balls for actually asking her to marry him and for her not saying no, yet.

“Not you, the makeup,” she corrected.

“Oh, yeah, I know.”

She started walking again and he followed. “So… it fits, hun?”

He pointed at the small rock on her finger, “not bad, right? I mean, I’ll get you a bigger diamond once I catch up on my phone bill…” she cut him off with a finger to his lips. He nearly went cross-eyed.

“Ad, you talk too much.”

“Can I kiss you?”

She slouched again and stopped walking, turning back towards him. “Did you seriously just ask me to marry you?”

“Yeah,” he stopped with his arms out, his palms turned upwards. “I love you.”

Mohave smiled, tilted her head to one side, trying to see the man in front of her differently. Her smile soon turned into laughter at the anguish and despair blushed across his face. He was full of shit, alright, but he was cute, and she could live with that.

desert king's breakfast

in his vision she wore her hair down
an over sized flannel shirt hid her model form

he awoke to the smell of corn bread and coffee
the sizzle of red vegetables from the stove top

alongside the slow cooked birth of an omelet
at 8am on a Wednesday morning in Pasadena

a beauty manifest in his kitchen unexpectedly
cooking him a desert king's breakfast

my mom donated her hair

to locks of love ♥

matching set with broken arms

he wandered the brutal desert
of the war-torn middle world

got caught in a pit, a mess
reached out and closed his eyes

he hoped and sang out
praying for his miracle, his muse

who comes to him in her dreams
a dark skinned goddess in jeans

smiles when she saves him
then wakes from her slumber

in a bare-brick apartment
two blocks from Madison Square Park

no names exchangeed but a kiss
shared on stage at a gig in Perth

he knew her lips and sway
wrote her poems and songs

posted lost love letters
on every street in London

all the wrong cities looking
for a girl in tight jeans and hoops

i made my friend michelle a birthday cake

and these are the beautiful pictures she took of it... ^______^ happiness all around!

typical bell behavior

1
a bell will burn a marshmallow
then offer it to you as a prize
for standing next to the person
who burnt the thing they won't eat
because bells are vegetarians, mostly.

this has happened to me once
and once i was there to witness
the act of marshmallow cremation
and the following act of kindness
smeared by an underlying desire
to convert to a less noble cause.

2
more frequent bell nobility manifests
in myriad miracles and abundant abandon
for alliteration and the offering
of four-leaved clovers as talismans
tainted over time with wilting.

such was the case before a game
of harmless sport, when one bell ran
off to a secret patch of clovers
she covets for collecting luck
to distribute to members of the opposing team.

3
in summer or winter a bell will lie down
in a field of snow or sun-chard grass
with arms spread wide in exhaustion
of all the memories associated with the season
and the flavors of pot luck dinners with friends.

memories of family trips across country
and fig trees in neighbors' backyards
that they used to pick from and eat at will
before discovering that their cat who they thought was lost
was stolen by the lady in the big white house next door.

midsummer blueprint

for jenni

pete and jing built a clipper ship
out of a big green canoe
and some old floral-print sheets
they found in the shed in pete's backyard.

copying the design from a page
of an illustrated copy of Moby Dick
they cut the sails with sheers
used by jing's dad to trim shrubs.

the masts were made of jointed tent poles
and the captain's wheel
resembled a snow sled with handles
made of empty beer bottles.

they staffed their ship with g.i. joes
and jing's pet turtle acted as lookout
from a plastic flower pot
tied to a snow shovel at the back of the ship.

the only problem they faced
in sailing their majestic ship
was the lack of open seas in north idaho
and the hole in the bottom of the canoe.

i spoke to dina today

i spoke to dina today
about macarons and mates

and the best years of a woman's life
to reproduce.

i miss dina.

roll over

i'm in a half sleep
when i hear you speak
my name so gentle
in the way you ask it

only loud enough
to still my waking attention
rolling over and half smiling
you smile back barely replying

my words are numb
not mattering beyond acknowledgement
you are here like a dream
reaffirming the dream

you say the sort of thing
i would say to you if you asked
am i dreaming or are you real
and if you're real why am i asleep?

and when i wake there's a letter
in an envelope with my name
scribbled in my native alphabet
that you copied from a free online translator

stewart became a brigadier

he was never one to be lied to
too keen for missing information
broken patters and rounded figures

so when we spent that night together
in his pilot's cabin observing venus
i had to tell him everything

thirty years later he's older and rounder
the brigadier of the same old boat
orbiting planets close to the sun

still replaying the night in his mind
memories saturated in deviant desire
for the boy he could have loved for life

it's a warm sunday morning

and i'm up too early. i got out of bed around 7:30, where usually i sleep until past 10 on a weekend. easily.

since getting up i've taken some allergy medicine and two cups of tea to open my nasel and throat passages. my ears are still swollen with sinus pain.

not all is lost. i took the time to work out that, if using vanilla bean, one batch of macaron shells coasts me $6.30 to make (not including labor of course). that's not bad considering one cookie (two shells and some filling) go for between 1 and 2 dollars in most places and one of my batches makes 30 or so cookies. that's a pretty decent overhead.

i'm not thinking about going into business just yet. though, i am hopefully going to start selling big macaron shells to the Polar Cave for them to include on sundeas. i don't know if Papa Bear really knows what he's getting into though.

i guess we'll just have to wait and see how it pans out. in the meantime, i'm writing him a brief history of the macaron. this blog post by cathy x at adicionado has a fantastic little history lesson included at the top, though i don't subscribe to her method of making. i am still very much in the school of notsohumble.

macarons are too hard to get just right to call them easy or to call any one batch perfect. maybe some day. until then, another cup of tea.

ryan and kerry on cape cod

voyage a la chez de madame tata avec jenni

jenni and i carried a miniture armoire
to the top floor of a brick house

on the corner of two famous boulevards
at le chez de madame tata

conspicuously named "la chateau de crackle"
unsuspectingly petite on the inside

despite the grandiose fixtures
rattled by the high pitched voices of garcons

imprisoned post trou de loup
we watched our step up the central staircase

to the tip top of la chateau
where we stumbled upon madame tata

affublee un bonnet and apron
over a gown, victorian vogue

shouting around the sound of past servants
directing the armoire placement

and correcting our pronunciation
of simple french phrases

as she cleaned paint brushes
and detailed the careful steps needed

to crackle a mirror frame
or the heart of a healthy man

in december (ist)

my mother was a chinese trapeze artist
your uncle was a crooked french canadian
smuggling bombs for the underground
gun-shot running gin
and i still roam these catacombs
cursing the name of the girl who died with me

*****

have been listening to the Decemerists lots.

you may suffer from some discomfort

while i redesign my blog.

take two Advil, have a cup of tea and relax. this will be over before you know it.

21 friends in common

we're staged and ready
for lip service per capita
the university
of our dreams and captains
in strapping animal-skinned shoes

and this is a segment

on bacon

bacon is the t.s. eliot of food.

pawtucket, braga and bourne

it's late

and the journey home
is rubble ridden

is stumbling over
flakes of green

paint left drying
since 1935 or yesterday

built from molds
and carried

through forests
of orange plastic

and reflective yellow paint

scanning the horizon
for passing foul

across state lines
on rt 195

where i bear the right
to rusting breaks

and a loud exhaust pipe

over the lattice
of ground road

under my wheels

the thump thump
of the street and lady gaga

today we passed two cars
still stuck together

by the force
of motion on motion

of hot metal
against hot metal

on a brilliant bright
tuesday evening

on our way over these
three bridges

the pawtucket
the braga
and the bourne

boy talk

they mostly bonded over football/soccer.

best friends

i'll make you presents
if we could be best friends

fly away on a ship powered
by balloons inflated

with the air from our lungs
and tied together with bows

drink strawberry milk
with our nutella and toast

pick flowers in bunches
to give to the neighbors

we'll make best friends
if you learn to speak english

and i learn to dig holes
big enough for both of us to slide down

watch clouds waft by in shapes
like animals and sail boats

riding through the morning sky
singing lullabies and telling jokes


Simply Hue = Pretty.

Simple Hue - Artist: Naoko from Naokos Stoop = Specificly Pretty.

the time is coming

i'm afraid to change my blog layout, to update all the links and modernize (as it were).

but that time is approaching rapidly. my blog is old. my blog is very old. my blog needs a makeover!

on the last day

ryan and i just rounded out a long weekend with a few episodes of the Ricky Gervais Show (as shown in HBO, and pictured below)

ricky, steve and karl were talking about death as they often do. ricky brought up the idea that life would be different if everyone was guaranteed that they would die peacefully in their sleep.

not to be morbid, but i was then lead to think about what i would do given only one full day left to live. if i knew that i would die in my sleep the next night. i have two answers to this situation, one is an idealized version of the last day, the other is how i think i would actually, really react if told i would die that night.

the ideal version of how i would react would be calm. if told i would die in my sleep that night, i would probably want to spend my last day at home with ryan and the cats. maybe have pancakes for breakfast and go for a walk along one of the trails behind our house. i would want everything to be normal. maybe i'd change the litter boxes just to fool myself into a cool state of normalcy. ryan and i would probably watch some old doctor who, or a few episodes of Ashes to Ashes or TUF. Then to round it out, I'd probably want to go out to dinner somewhere. seafood maybe, or thai food? and i'd want to spend my last waking moments in the arms of my best friend and lover, my ryan.

that sounds like a lovely day.

what i think would really happen though... the day might end up the way i described above, but not before greedily gorging on junk food until i felt ill. then in a fit of guilt and self pity i'd probably run off somewhere solemn. i think i'd reach out to the ocean actually. i would cry for myself and feel dissatisfied.

i think this is where i would end up if i were alone. this is my deep dark side. my self pitying side. my ugly side.

and in my scenario of what i would do on the last day, it's ryan who saves me. he rescues me from my tears, reminds me of the good i've done, reminds me what i mean to him, and then takes me home where we spend my final day together in each other's arms.

so all this is going through my head as we're watching the ricky gervais show and it occurs to me as if for the first time, i love ryan.

of course i love him, we've been happily married for over six years. but it still surprises me whenever that thought--pure and whole--pops into my head unexpectedly.

ryan always saves me. in any state of mind or matter, ryan always saves me.

grumpet

the villiage

non-poem

memorial mixed greens
over chip-board toast

***

tea soaked saturday

start me off with a mix
of white milk and black tea

my fifth go on the macaron-a-coaster

the wondrous Michelle purchases me a big ol' box of blanched almond flour in order for me to produce a large sum of macarons for her sister's birfday.

so, tonight i did a test batch to make sure nothing unforeseen goes down when i attempt four batches in two days (that's a lot of macaronage, folks).

good news, the test came back tasty and pretty ^____^ below are a few photos of the one i sunk my teeth into. it was a very thorough test, let's say.

more than a photo blog

the space in between: the art of losing love pt 2

Michelle fell into the lap of this lovely blog. I have only read this single post linked here to date. It's moving and lovely and heavy and universal. It deserves some meditation on my part still, after which I'll explore more posts by this blogger.

another sunday

the house should smell of butter -
i made madeleines for breakfast -

but he's trying to fix the fan
in the bedroom with canned oil

and the fresh laundry on the line
in the back yard can only be felt

from a window ledge - all of which
are occupied by cats with bellies

full of freshly whipped cream -

vanilla bean macarons

with Terry's chocolate orange ganache. tasty little beasts.

hello

a little poem for Sarah


the daffodils have started to wilt
early May heat, prickling at their stalks

petals turned upwards
towards that great fiery ball in the sky

eyes closed tight against the light
yielding bright colored shapes

moving and morphing and playing tricks
under the soft skin on a child's lids

a neighborhood summer game
performed to the sound of orange cats

on the window sills of house number 10
and geese squawking at passing ducks

c is for cake, ain't that right

i found the art room plant on tumblr. from there i found sarah ahearn's paper crown which featured this lovely craft work... (among many other beautiful pieces, which you should check out, you).

C is for Cake

sweet fatty delight

another saturday

a little poem for Alli

on any given sofa a cat
she is purring

with her eyes half closed
half open

spying on the sounds
surrounding her saturday morning

ryan loves brika-brak

a picture from england land

for your enjoyment ♥

three weeks in england

we scheduled a two week holiday and got three. thanks to "the volcano" all British airspace was closed for flights. the flight ban ran through until the Tuesday after we were meant to fly. perhaps more on this later.

in those three weeks, i took nearly 2,000 pictures. here's one of them. i hope you like it ^______^

gone to england

okay, we're leaving on friday afternoon. but i don't know that i'll have much time to comment here before we go (especially considering our internet router thingy is ba ba ba busssted).

tomorrow is all about packing. friday morning is all about making sure the kitties are sorted and the car is full of fuel for the ride to boston.

^___________^


maybe i'll update from england with a few british easter pictures.

p.s. DOOOOOOOCTOR WHOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

happy birthday ryan!

(lemon macarons with white chocolate ganache and blue rose meringues)

More Macarons!

i had another go at macarons tonight, and i think they look wonderful!



i used the recommended portions of confectioner's sugar (160g) and almond meal (120g) this time.

also, my egg whites were properly aged (in the fridge 5 days before baking and left out on the counter for two days before baking).

finally, i mixed the batter a bit more. i think i have the consitancy down now.

these ones are lemon flavored for ryan's birthday.

to bake, i set the oven to 310 degrees F, turned it down to 300 and put the macarons in for 10 minutes. the bottoms are a little sticky. there's a batch in the oven right now that i am going to try leaving in a little longer (maybe 12 minutes) to see what difference that makes with stickyness.

there are huge air pockets in them, but that's not my biggest concern yet.

i'm so pleased these ones look more like macarons on the outside, and less like... weird pink cat vomit. tasty cat vomit. okay.

Katy Makes Macarons: Part 6

while these little delights don't LOOK like the macarons i was aiming for, they taste pretty stellar.

next time i'll use the original ratio of almond meal to sugar and see what differnce that makes in the shells. and i can afford to mix the batter a bit more than i did too. i was very very concerned with not overing mixing it.

overall though, i'm really proud of my efforts and looking forward to trying again.

Katy Makes Macarons: Part 5

the macs i baked at 330 degrees F for 10 minutes came out really nice... with one HUGE excepton:

those cannot be called feet. they're more like flippers.

i'm letting the oven cool down before i try a batch at a lower temperature. i think 300 degrees for 15 minutes. they might also come out all wonky, but so goes trial and error.

Katy Makes Macarons: Part 4

so far, so good. well, aside from the fact that i'm a moody grumbleoid today and had a little bit of a strop earlier x____x

here are a few pictures of the macarons in progress...

almond meal and sugar in the food processor

I'm making my shells rose flavored


and pink ^___^


i think i did a pretty good job NOT over mixing my batter, but i may have under mixed it... dunno.


and this is one of the best pipped shells so far. i made a few weird looking ones because i started off with too fine a pipping tip.


as of right now, the tray of macarons are settling on the counter. i'll put them in the oven in half an hour or so.

and the kitchen smells of roses! ♥

Katy Makes Macarons: Part 3

having done quite a lot of reading on these little cookies, i've discovered some variations. because i don't want to go into the kitchen confused and disorganized, it's best to make some decisions ahead of time.

The Ratios

the sites that i'm relying on to guide me through this macaron adventure offer a few different ratios of ingredients. i'm sure there are differences in the final cookie, but i'm not sure what they are.

since i genuinely have no idea what i'm doing, i've decided on the most scientific recipe, and the one least specialized to a single baker's preferences.

this base recipe is that offered by syrup and tang.

i'll be mixing 100g of egg white (aged) with 80g of castor sugar with a dash of cream of tarter (because i have some).

my bright pink gel food coloring and rose water extract will go in this mixture of egg whites and sugar.

then syrup and tang recommend a well mixed 160g of confectioner's sugar and 120g of almond meal. i don't want my cookies too sweet though (oh, here i go, making changes already), so i'm going to do equal parts sugar and almond, which means 140g confectioner's sugar and 140g almond meal and add that blend to my meringue.

The Method

like ratios, there are also different methods of making these tasty treats.

one method requires using syrup (sugar boiled in a water solution to 150 degrees F). this technique is the italian meringue method. from what i gather, this method yields more consistent results; however, i don't have a standing mixer to let run while i boil the sugar. i am not in the mood to burn myself on boiling sugar. and finally, i've tried making homemade chocolate fudge from scratch and every time i over or under boiled the candy for over-all terrible results.

seeing as how i have a bad history with boiling sugar, i'm going with the french method. you simply whip up some egg whites, add your sugar, whip some more, and viola!

so while the french method might be a little more risky for the cookies, my comfort level with this second method is higher and i'm less likely to royally screw up in the kitchen.

i'm hoping that the meringue doesn't make so much of a difference and that allowing the shells to rest before baking, baking for the right time in the right temperature, and then allowing the shells to cool all make the difference in the shape and texture of the cookies.

that being said, it might take a few tries to figure out the best temperature and time in my own oven. for now, i'll be backing with the convection setting at 330 defrees F for 7 minutes. i don't know if i have to leave the oven door open or not... i think i'll leave it closed for now. i'd rather watch the shells and take them out sooner if need be. the fortunate thing is, i can bake several differnt trays full with my one batch of batter, so i can adjust the temp and time between batches to start figuring my oven out.

wish me luck!

Katy Makes Macarons: Part 2

furthering my research on making macs (that's the industry slang for macarons, see) i've been watching a few videos.

this one was particularly helpful:



i'll be baking this evening so expect pictures tonight. i'm nervous, but excited.

Katy Makes Macarons: Part 1

i've been thinking about Macarons a lot lately. i found a few places online where i can buy them in large quantities. on our last jaunt to Philly we went to a little place called Miel Patisserie and i purchased a whole box of cookies!



i've not just been thinking about eating them though. i've been thinking of *dun dun dun* making them!

macarons are a sort of bench mark baked good. once you've made macarons (good ones), you've MADE IT in the baking world. (okay, so at least in my little ol' opinion anyway, and that of some fellow foodie type bloggers out there).


i'm nervous about making these little cookies as i've not even attempted straight meringues yet. but saturday is Jour De Macaron, and what better day to attempt making my first batch of macarons that Macaron Day!?

no better day, i say. so saturday i will be attempting my first batch of macarons.

the first step to making macarons is RESEARCH. and so, i've been reading up on the delicious little delights. below are the three sights that have detailed guides; all of which can become a bit overwhelming, but at least i'll know where to look when my cookies come out all wonky or sticky and figure out exactly what i did wrong.

Not So Humble Pie: Mararon 101

Sytup and Tang: La Macaronicité

and La Cuisine De Mercotte

i don't have all the tools i really should. i don't have silicon mats for my cookie sheets. i don't have a stainless steal mixing bowl. i don't have an oven thermometer. but i do have a great oven, a nice scale (thanks mum!), and patience enough not to be put off if my first batch comes out terrible.

so far i've seperated some eggs (which, erm, i made a huge mess while doing) i'll measure out two 50g portions of whites saturday before baking (this could be a really bad idea, don't know. i've never aged egg whites before).

i've got almond meal (which i intend on drying out tomorrow night) and i'll probably whip up the buttercream tomorrow night too.

updates as they come ^__^ and yeah, there'll be pictures!