This book finally! arrived in the mail and is now in my kitchen, the source of my new project for
the summer (let's be serious) the year. Chapter One: Soup, the Staff of Life and the first recipe--Potage Picard au Pois (split pea soup). The peas are soaking even as we speak. Not a fan of peas other than the frozen ones in the bag I put on an aching back now and again, but journeys begin with a single step and Hubby seems to like just about anything I cook, so split peas it is.
We're on Season 2 of Treme, though a bit scatter-rhompussed. Season 2 comes from the library in four different DVD's containing the eleven episodes and what has come in so far from the far reaches of the CinCity library requesting system are episodes 4, 5, & 6 as well as 10 & 11. What I know so far is that crime has returned to the Crescent City harder than before and people I've never seen before are somehow involved in this and the food and music are still fabulous, but struggling. Sounds about right. About 72 more hours before I see for myself in person.
I won't be here for June 16th and "Bloomsday," but happyhappy to all the James Joyce fan out there. I hope to return with stories of daring and adventure in my own walkabout a city.
Listening to the Garden
by Brendan Galvin
Look at it this way: under the brass fanfare
of their blossoms, all those zucchinis
are really incipient oompahs.
And the pea-vine tremolos? Middle C
rubbed out of a rhubarb stalk?
Now you're beginning to hear it: that line
of radishes ostinato, bean paradiddles,
a beefsteak tomato redballing its cadenza.
Aren't the parts of these vegetables—the phloem,
the calyx and carina—names of woodwinds
you'd love to hear, in counterpoint
with the garden's valves and bells?
Remember that morning you drove
into the main street of a town—Colorado Springs,
was it? - on no holiday you could name?
Nevertheless, the high-school band was passing,
majorettes in their short, flippant skirts
frilled like the inner linings of lettuce,
and shakos, corn-tassel plumed, remember,
and the frogging on jackets—cucumber vines
scrolled on themselves. The whole garden's
flash and patootle was moving off
toward a snowed-upon peak
down at the end of that street.