eggbeater

/this is what i want to say about love.

what is the gift?
is the gift loving another or
just loving.
is love a gift at all
or is just
love.
you should ever put just before love
love is bigger than that.

i feel open
i feel broken
i feel naked
i feel am exposed

the gift of love is feeling love
starting from that place
filling you up
where pleasure starts
abdomen meets thighs
it melts me
melts you
light
it's all light
i can't feel my legs
i don't know where i am
but i'm traveling
rocketing -

you're taking me there
{but are you?}
/or is it me?

/this is what i want to say about love
don't be scared of it
sit inside it
even though
it's absolutely terrifying.

i've fallen in love with you and all you want to do is run away
run
get on a plane
disappear
run through the woods
get deep inside
when even a compass can't find your way out
bury you deep

i hold your face inside my hands
and kiss your eyelids
i tell you it will be alright
i place my hands, mouth between your legs
i pleasure you
i feed you delicious food
i take you to where the sky opens up
and swallows us whole
i pull heavy camera to my eye
and you say no.
i tell you your rules are not my rules
i tell you i will never tell.
secret
you are secret
i am your secret.

what is the gift of love.
i feel love
but i never say it
i know it scares you down to your toes
you said this wasn't real.

but you know what?
fuck you and your borders
my heart is mine
my love is mine
my body is mine

/this is what i want to say about love.
it's mine
and mine to give
and you can never forsake it
reject it
give it back
throw it down
break it

Hello love my old friend
Sure is good to see you again

what is the gift?
the gift is love
the gift is a heart
kept malleable
vulnerable, soft, permeable, punctureable
hand me a scalpel,
i'll show you
there
cut there
my heart's been bruised bloodied forgotten discarded dulled
i've sat in the deep waters of grief
i've held the hand of her dying
i've transformed
i've closed up my heart for years at a time
hidden it on a shelf
and smoothed over the door
shallow grave
walked away.

love.

she says the gift is the feeling of it
not the reciprocation
he says no one can ever love you the way you want to feel loved
i say you can't fall out of love
love ain't no fuckin' tree.

/this is what i want to say about love.
it is terrifying
it changes you
it changes everything
it carries you
aloft
from floating you see the land
color blocks and swirvy lines
deep blue water
flattened, like hammer to nail
and it could
float you down
        glide
wing ed
nothing but the wind in your ears and clouds in your hair
nothing but your whole body melting into ozone, hemisphere
but it can also drop you
baby bird
empty nest
what looks to be a parachute, ballast
all hopes
evaporate
eviscerated
a fish hook enters, sharp as a razor
pulled out the way it went in
stuck
barb
tearing
slow death, painful. jagged.

love.
so many costumes, guises.
a siren's call
kiss and a slap

/this is what i want to say about love.
be not afraid to speak it
be not afraid to tell it
whether it is taken from your hands, out of your mouth, from your sex
whether rejected, tied in knots
whether turned into lies
whether told
'no. this is not love. i don't love you. you don't know what love is. i've never loved you. you're not worthy of love. i haven't known you long enough. but i told you not to fall in love with me. you know i don't have love to give you.'

what is the gift?
is the gift loving another or
just loving.

/this is what i want to say about love.
love is delicious
inspiring, opening
it's nothing i want to be ashamed of
no matter the subject
no matter here nor there
no matter gender chosen or assigned
no matter
even if secret, unattainable, gone

love is at my door again
/this is what i want to say about love.

today, bittersweet. /i hate today.

as the weekend nears
you feel dread
but you can't put your finger on it.
it's in there
at the tip of your mind
tongue, a bitter taste.

but you can't remember
and it bothers you all day, all week, every day
like a scratchy sweater
or plastic on wet skin
sciatica

what day is it
not sure
has it passed, when will it arrive

and yet
it's on your mind
the day that's coming and you can't avoid it
even though if you could take a knife to that place
you would
without hesitation.

but you don't tell anyone
you keep quiet
because you don't want to make a fuss
hey, maybe the day will go unnoticed
because you don't live in america anymore
people here aren't as sappy.
a greeting card for every occasion isn't necessary.
and if you keep quiet
maybe it won't happen maybe no one will know maybe you'll
forget.

forget.
hahahahahahahaha
you're            funny
/in a dark dark dark way.

you never forget
in fact
it never gets better
just different
and you hate
you hate
time

you hate today

you hate the word forget
you hate people who still have both parents

 you hate that nothing can ever take it away
no amount of heroin, hours working, exhaustion, fucking, drinking, razors, inspiring, writing, punk rock, words, miles moved

nothing
will ever take it away.

nothing
will ever
bring her back.

nothing will ever
bring
you
back.

today, bittersweet.
/i hate today.

you hate that there's a name for today.
a demarcation.
you hate that it's all the rage to proudly declare it all over the internet like it's some sort of star receiving statement.

and funny,
because you almost forgot
you wandered into today groggy, spent, sore, listless, happy
you dreamt of the person beside you
naked
doing nothing in particular
just lovely to be near
even though
you are soon to say good bye.
again and again
you say farewell
you let go of someone's hand
because they're no longer
holding your hand back

you leave with you from the bar
you say, 'i make sweet things.'

click
document
memory
click
she's stopped breathing
finally
click
lightswitch
change
click
nothing.

but today is here
and heavy
and you are so goddamned glad
you won't see or hear from anyone you care about today
so you can walk into that space
no one understands
no one
and not come out
until you want to.

because when today is over
you'll be on a plane
you're going to see the ocean
you're going to taste the sea
you're going to see the sky
you're going to be close to your place
your name
you're going to allow someone to touch you
again
and then let-         go
you
are going to let another day pass
are going to live
in the moment
and savor it,
delicious de la.

cold water air
words unspoken
touch light, electric
close eyes
un petit mort
salt, wet.

you''ll come back
envelope sealed
wings tucked.
today, absence.

today, closed.
today, quiet.
today, armor down.

today, bittersweet.

dessert poems. IV

black sesame dacquoise
roasted banana mousse
macadamia praline
peach & apricot matchsticks; quick saute
tahina foam

lemon gelee
lemon sherbet
lemon confit slice
water caramel
grapefruit supremes
dots of lemon cream
black pepper-vanilla-rosemary shortbread halfcircles; baked until deep golden

very thin layer chocolate souffle-cake
peanut-feuillitine-milk chocolate-vanilla salt crunch
cocoa nib dentelle
milk chocolate-butter caramel cremeaux
another very thin layer chocolate souffle-cake
cocoa powder
slow roasted peanuts

dessert poems. II

warmed pinenuts, minced golden raisins, moroccan lemon
fromage frais
mint chiffonade
white balsamic gelee

butter caramel
milk chocolate cream
grilled croissant
peanut hot milk
maldon

brunoise lime
roast pineapple
sheep yogurt granite sprinkled over soft yogurt
pistachio-macadamia honey brittle crunch
smoked salt

dessert poems

sucre
genoise
peach leaf syrup
sesame seed mousse
peach slivers layered like peonie petals
peach poach miroir

brioche
goat curd, minced rosemary, sel gris, orange blossom honey
caramelized blood oranges, raspberries
brunoise of raw rhubarb, nicoise olive oil
demerrera sugar

alphonso mango slivers
coconut toasted jasmine rice
vanilla bean sugar
coconut water caramel
fried taro
stolen kiss of fresh lime

the only thing you can rely on is change.

and you never know when one chapter becomes another.
time takes time.
rushed bread develops little flavor.
cold egg whites aren't as strong.
flour is never what you think it is until you know it.
fruit is way more complicated than you, but neck in neck with love.
chocolate can be mastered but never owned.
anything fermented is cities of tastes.
perspective should never be underestimated.
no one can guarantee you anything, unless you believe in lies.
believe people when they tell you the truth about themselves.
passion and numbers do not the best bedfellows make.
craft
is a mightily powerful force.
actions are choices. even when we feel trapped.
relationships are built by verbs not observations.

failure is relative.
you can define success.
there are many types of victory.
you can start your day over at any point.
breakfast all day is a wondrous thing.
chocolate is a better addiction than heroin.
if you keep doing the same thing over and over, expecting different results, it will make you feel crazy.
transparency
is refreshing.
while honesty is relative, it's utterly important.
self knowledge can be a compass if you let it.
a strong work ethic helps and hurts.
loyalty is often blind.
people are not fruit. one cannot shave off the nasty bits and eat only the part they like.
sometimes strangers can say the thing you need to hear the most.
but those who love and know you intimately can usually cut to the chase faster,
and the rewards are life long.
sometimes you're not meant to know why you've moved 8,000 miles away.
40
is a meaningful number, in human years.
4 is my favourite colour because it's orange.
morning ritual is lovely, and grounding.
april showers bring may flowers.
chin up.

being a cook's cook is an important distinction in my opinion.
craft can never be mastered but it can be studied.
sometimes you have to look at how hard you're working
and hear it
when people say
you don't necessarily have to work harder
but you might want to work
different.
"there is no failure. I give you permission to erase it from your word box altogether."
the kitchen is a siren.
the ending is always the same.
fame is an illusion.

the only thing you can rely on is change.
what does that make pattern?
years are just broken up into patterns disguised as coincidences.
sleep is delicious.
home is complicated.
the ocean is vast. and alive.
baking is alchemy.
laminated dough is a series of folds, like envelopes
carrying thousands upon thousands of layers
of words
inked, pushed, pressed
monotype, letterpress,
lead & oil
pigment & plaster
conjure & whisper
only to be shared
by those in the know
carrying messages over land and sea, through snow and rain.
for there is no destination to reach.
just one sign,


the only thing you can rely on is change.

Baking as Craft, a {tortured} love affair.

Baking.    Art, Craft, Alchemy, Arithmetic, Science, Intuition, Passion. 

Baking.
I'm married to it. Can't shake it. Leave it, go back. Forsake it. Take it back. Throw it in the river, say a prayer. Find it on my pillow in the morning.

Dream it, think it, feel it. Baking.
O Baking, who art thou?
Why do you torture me so? Take me deep into the water or leave me adrift.
But please, make up your damn mind.

Baking. I will love you always. You never cease to amaze me. Delight me. Flirt me right back into your body. Even when I know it's a really bad idea.
Even when I know Bad Things Will Happen.

You could say it's frivolous. Pleasure for no reason.  But for sugary flowers; a slap of frosting; quiet hedgerows of hand sculpted leaves; thousands of layers of flour caught mid waft by creamy butter and seared by steam; sugar in every variation from hard sharp hot molecule to midstream water clarity and then shattering razor caramel, pulled like yoga pose toffee or glass sculpture caught mid ballet act.
Sugar, forever muse, never wife.

I love you baking. Will you be mine?

No.

Baking is no one's and everyone's. CRAFT. Study it, work it, learn it, revere it, pray to it, honor it. Craft is never understood completely. Mastered, yes. Owned & understood, no.

You think you know baking. Because you do. For a minute-- Ha! Baking. Forever an elusive love, unrequited. Short term affair. Lasting a lifetime.

Unbound me baking! Never let me go. Love me forever.

Why me? Who am I to you?

Kiss me hard, sharpen the blade, slice me off clean.

Forget you ever heard of me, or tell me why you stay, whether in shadows lurking or calling me day and night and weaving your scent through my head, knotting hair, thick like saltwater.

I build the house, you make a cup of tea, ask me to bed without words.

We garden, you evaporate. Leaving me with a vase empty but for pollen on the rim.

Baking.
You knit me anew, unravel my senses, promise me what you cannot,        and I believe you like a virgin to love. India ink precariously at the edge of a needle. Tattoo me Baking.

Slit thumb,
speak not.
I am yours.

Tell me you'll love me forever,
    tell me you'll never leave

even if,    lies.

I can't unlock you, baking. Ate too many pomegranate seeds. Slid down the rabbit hole. Drank a tiny sip from a giant bottle. Took a pirate's swig from a teardrop glass.

Baking and me. Me and Baking.
We're in the ring for another round.

Place your bets.

The price of a racehorse

The price of a racehorse

Neither defines its worth nor designates its place
She is only as good as her last day
Only as fast as she can be

There are no guarantees

No insurance.

What is the return on investment?
When is the horse trusted to run fast?
Really fast?
Everyday.

The price of a racehorse
Is relative
Only to the price of other racehorses.

{If housework was quantifiable,
Men would have to be stay-at-home moms too.}
       good thing wives come cheap.

The price of a racehorse is hope.
Hours of training go unaccounted for.
You'll never pay for a trainer’s lost sleep.

Dedication cannot be bought.
Inspiration cannot be forced.
Legs cannot be bound
So they never break.

How does one train a horse to run fast?

Is it through force or suggestion?
Inspiration or starvation?

Will the owner, the payee, ever be satisfied?
Will the return on investment ever be noted?
Noticed. 

You could be doing better. I know you can.

Or is it part of the game—to constantly push, to constantly hope, to constantly withhold, to constantly demand and admonish.

Every race a new track. Every gun fired for the first time. Every gate, every judge, every clock, without memory, without prejudice.
Eyes unseeing.

The racehorse runs until she dies.
{This doesn’t have to be as terrible as it sounds.}

What was it all for?
Was her investment returned?
Was she more trouble than ribbons? Did her cost balance her wins?
Will people remember her when she’s left the track?

There is no price one can set for another.
There is no return on investment if one is never satisfied, if one plays so hard, pushes so fiercely, demands the world
Every day.
moments of amazing streaks of speed and grace,           are missed.

Faerie dust in the dustpan.
Horses  after horses after horses,
and where o where to put the decimal point?

There is no insurance that the race will always be won because it never happens always.

Trust
Is built, not demanded.
Trust is faith.
        Not empirical.

The price of a racehorse is dreams tied together with hope surrounding a package of desire.
        It is elusive at best.

And the horse?
She will run as fast as she can

Because she loves the feel of air
Coursing fast over her face, ears set back, four hooves afloat
        A streak of will and heft, power and grace
Both.

A pull from within
To be as bold as wind, singular as horizon
Inspired by no     one     named

Owned by             nothing
But that moment,

that whoosh.

2 January 2009

November First.

orange, red, yellow, ochre
the colour of rain
saturating flag stones,
slate, concrete, cobbles and brick

autumn.

november first is fall
and winter
barely disguised
in scarves, mittens, wet wool and sumptuous cashmere.

wind, storm
light the grey sky makes

night envelopes suddenly
swallowing dusk, unapologetic.

autumn is november first and the first of november is a passing of autumn.

hunker down, quiet down.

rustle leaves.
crunch and crisp and curl
snow threatens, teases
leaves swirl and fall, live and die
catch fire with colours aflame, aglow

november first
announces, resigns

sighs.

chill, frost, bite
autumn briefly
winter waits.

knit me in
take me home
wrap hands
steaming liquid
chestnuts roasting
frozen toes and nose

cumulous clouds layered, quilted
ferocious. quiet, brave.

november is one grand american holiday revolving around
turkey, cranberries, winter squash, potatoes, brown sugar, & warm spices.

persimmon leaves glow; electrified.

november is midterms, home for the holidays
fireplace alive. tongues of fire
hot cocoa, foliage pilgrimages,

picking apples upstate!
cider, butter, pie.

november first.
autumn incarnate.
raking leaves,
exchanging summer for winter.

trees let go of leaves
branches clarify
light whitens.

happy november

the chapter you weren't planning on writing.

you like where you live.
no, scratch that.
you love where you live.
you never want to leave. the house.
like you never want to go outside.
you can see the outside just fine, thank you, because you're house is mostly windows.
you call it the treehouse
and it also looks like a ship
and feels like an attic
which checks off all your boxes
not to mention
that you've never lived alone
all by yourself
with only your own aesthetic to keep you company

until now.

the treehouse.

it sounds romantic.
because it is.
and so
you never want to leave it.

no matter that where you live
all around you
the industry you've worked so hard to learn that craft in
is getting smacked and spanked and pinched and pressed
(in a bad way)
and you know it personally
because you lost your job
even though it was a brand new restaurant
and had so much potential
{but you did see the writing on the wall} and yelled yourself sore like Henny Penny because you did in fact see the writing [in blood] on the wall but no matter because no one was listening or so you thought

         until they laid you off.

ha.

they showed you.

{in that case who says, 'i told you so?'}

well anyways, so carrying on ~
you loved your home
and you told everyone you were never going to leave
unless it was to Portland
but you weren't ready for Portland yet
even though you can't explain why.

and then

this phonecall came.
and the phonecall said, 'are you interested in this thing in England?'
and you said yes
even though you were screaming no
a silent scream
but a scream nonetheless
because you love your leetle treehouse and all the roses and your cute street and how you can walk to The Cheeseboard and BART and your planties are so happy
and hey
so are you.

but you say yes,

o yes, i am interested in this thing in England.
because one day about 10 years ago
you got a similar phonecall
and that phonecall said,
'do you want to work at The French Laundry?'
and you did the very same thing:
you replied yes when your inside voice was screaming no
but you know what?

you are not allowed to say no to that question

because you wouldn't even be worth the bullet
if you said no when someone called you to ask if you wanted to work at The French Laundry.

and just like 10 years ago
you thought that even though you were saying yes to this thing you were secretly sicking No on
you probably wouldn't get it anyway
because my god that's a long shot, right?
and surely they'll find someone who can scream yes
by way of all their voices
{no matter how many of them are silent or heard}
and you'll be left
to your contentedness
your treehouse
your quiet
and you.

but no
i mean yes
yes you were not left to take root in your treehouse.
your wings were gently unfurled
and someone showed you
that you could fly again.
that you could start over
start anew
and begin a new chapter.

and so it begins.

the chapter you weren't planning on writing.

when september arrives,

the sound of wind picks up
but softly
because all leaves can't fall on the ground at once.

school boys whisper
ties are crisp
shoes shined
corduroy in straight lines.
texture at attention.

when september arrives
school has begun
summer has ended
searsucker hangs forlorn on wooden hanger.

close your eyes
almost
because the light shifts in whispers
and the lightest touch
becomes loud
as september progresses.

click
a girl in a dress.
click
a girl in a suit.

when september arrives
sails taut
water chills
picnic tables lay bare
until Indian Summer arrives
     and fools us all for a minute.

autumn is on the way
when september arrives.

quietly
tiptoeing in
like faeries painting sleeping dust
gilting leaves, and crisping their edges
slow and low.

wind is bellowing, or picking up the speed to do so.
we are in tomatoes and strawberries and even figs for a spell
but it's tomfoolery by pixies united.
because when september arrives
     there's no going back
to suntan lotion and easy flirtations
to watermelon and corn on the cob and water fights.

we straighten ourselves in september.
get back to work.
starch shirts and
pull out our last bits and bobs from the garden.

thinking about summer, just a few days ago, is lovely still.
I left the house without a jacket even when I knew I would return home at night,
I stepped out of the shower and let the air dry me
I walked the dogs only when dusk fell.

summer is gone
when september arrives.
almost.
we are betwixt and between in

September.

Our eyes are at work but thoughts are elsewhere. On the shore. Rowing. Swimming.
Catching fireflies.

when september arrives it's like taking a train ride for the first time.
everything is new and big and solid
and yet we have to get on to leave somewhere
we feel we've been forever.
we wave goodbye to those on the platform who appear to stand stock still
as we edge away a chug & a groan at a time
and then trees and green and blue and water are fleeting past us,
and depending on how we refocus,
we can see a bit at a time

glance, a bird in the marsh
glance, balloon stuck in branch
whoosh
glance, a partial stone wall going up
over the hill
flat sky

hand against glass.
     au revoir.

when september arrives
hands unclasp
she tells you one thing but means another
you know it and think she does too
but she's stayed behind on the platform, looking at the train leaving. blank.

the wind picks up now
and whips around papery leaves
clumpfuls missing from full canopies like tears in an umbrella.

I can see the sky peeking through and it's gone from deep indigo to cerulean or washed out royal.

when september arrives,

don't let it fool you.
it's not goodbye or farewell
it neither here nor there
and it's absolutely solid.

september is the orange blush of a new season.
butterfly kiss.
is demure tease
and a tie tied just so.
palms, flat as seagull feet, smooth down skirt,
eyes meet horizon,
where our sun has shifted just a bit.

if the sun meets your gaze, turn around
and see your geography cast aglow with cooler yellows, fall tinges
and a month of summer memories knitted into what's to come!

O September

thank you for allowing me one month to both remember summer, and look forward to autumn.

happy SEPTEMBER!

august is.

august is deep,
an upright bass
low
baritone
purple.

august is one whole month
penned in by two walls.
august isn't like july
and definitely not september.

August is.

sweat
sex
night
eggplant
peppers
hot
humid as fuck
sheets soaked
jellyfish
fans everywhere
barely blowing out the sounds of bad night
sirens
stoop talk
car alarms
teenagers drinking
smack in a spoon
sizzling
bbq
ices
short shorts
salty ocean swims
big fish fishing
scales and blood and beer
salty tipped hair
and eyebrows
clamming
corn-on-the-cob

every dinner is a picnic in august.
august is pie, pie, and more pie.

hip hop beats vibrate
cars
hips
lips
faces sweat
voracious kissing
barely sleeping
heatwaves & blackouts
city dwellers beg to leave
weeks shorten
scent rises from
bodies, cars, asphalt, dirt, lakes, rivers
air stands still.

august is full of blueblack and violet thunderstorms.

electricity sticks together
iced coffee is water
water is the sea
and fire hydrants
under the boat
in elbows and knees and
between breasts.

salty sweet sweat.

august is.

fine girls
fly bois
summer romances
virginity lost
boardwalk shadows
learning how to angle your new teen body

stealing glances
hungry
sugar salt
drink.

august is naughty.
it's the month before.
the last month.
summer
incarnate.

to get to august
you stand atop the tallest rock
and dive in
down down down
body swallowed
hold breath
lose self.

august is dancing in the streets
fried dough
french fries
seafood
blackberry brambles
bee stings
mosquito bites
and green flies enough to make you crazy.

august is
peaches plums raspberries
melons deep musky ripe sticky
corn okra
and tomatoes!

so many tomatoes
on, in, under everything.

the grill is on
all day
sweet tea, shelling beans, peas

porches and family
climbing trees
watermelon
fireflies
bare feet
camping

the heavens are steeped with stars

bedtime doesn't exist
we sleep outside
play in the street until midnight.

august is everyday at the beach
until every day is saturday
coney island is august visually.

august is death
decompost
black dirt
rich fertile

august is touch.
pleasure pain scratch bite slap push pull stretch
one flat palm down
a kiss that never ends
un petit mort
music moves my body and in it i lose myself and become beat bass movement
someone else

you know who. i change.

august is.
sensualist
skin
agitation

august is wave sound
the one you can't hear
if you're listening
or watching

ocean
nightsound
the sound of pull

august is the siren
who longs for the mortal

august is the violet hour.

august is in between.
betwixt.

august is.

mischievous
puck.
temptress.
fetish.
leather.
rubber.
august isn't vanilla,

unless we're talking about ice cream.

in august you can't eat ice cream fast enough. you can't cool down.

august is hot. thick air. thick with new possibility. change. spontaneity.

august is clock stopping.
adventure.
secret.
stolen kisses.
almost imperceptible touch.

in august
whether fruit
or veg
or

the time is now.

august. is.

happy deep august

if i were a summer squash.

i would make promises i couldn't keep

i would be prickly and soft

unapologetic

for neither. for both.

if i were a summer squash,

i would play hard to get

and easy to eat

and proliferate like mad

mad mad mad mad mad mad mad mad mad

~ the mad hatter!

if i were a summer squash

i would be beautiful

and plain

both.

i would go on and on

attracting honeybees

unfurling at dusk and dawn

untwisting

and revealing

myself

orange, delicate,

expand    e x  p   a    n      d

until i could reach no more

create a blossom you could fill

but never satiate.

and then i would disappear

and leave you with someone long, smooth, elegant

and also down-to-earth

plainspoken.

and then

when summer washed into fall

like a deep sleep after swimming in the tumbling ocean

i would swim away,

tiny silver fishes,

and leave you

wanting

for summer

again.

once s'more, with feeling!

blind date.

nervous.
o, what to wear.
too hot outside.
clean the house.
thoroughly.
why?
something to do with all that strange energy.

blind dates are brave.

pick the restaurant.
second guess the choice a hundred times.
don't want to go someplace where everyone and the dishwasher know me.
or have crush on chef. or baker.
but want delicious food.
nervous.
giddy.
hot. oppressively so.

what if
it's dreadful,
feels too long,
can't get away fast enough?

but it's none of the above.
lovely.
more under the surface than one might know from a glance.
east coast. Jersey.
fishes. fly & sea.
freckles. and Jewish.
musician too.
has no tv, although has watched the Sopranos.
strong. works with hands.
this is important to me.
an upstart, too!

orders goat, i get porchetta.

it's an unexpected pleasure.
i like meeting new people.

an exceptional extra ordinary Royal Blenheim apricot sorbet sat between us.
tiny butter cookie speckled with polenta, sea salt and a raw sugar.
    yes, please.

and just to prove how small a world is.
we know someone in common.
someone i've known since my childhood.
Polly Frizzell. through bluegrass.
go figure.

walked away tingly.
not knowing, no.
but taking in the moment, experience.
have had a lot of dead end crushes lately,
would rather
    stolen kisses
    something to think about besides baked goods.
not that baked goods aren't fun. they are.

but it's summer.
and yes, there's also stone fruit, and bush berries, and coconut cream pie, and hot biscuits and ice cream and shorts and river swims and
everyone is out and about
looking good.
i'm looking for delicious people.
if you know anyone,
registration is now open.
xo

The Fourth of July!

today is:

chocolate buttermilk cake
sticky buns
beignets !
sweet potato pie
caramel cake with caramelized butter frosting
a spoonful of the best coconut pastry cream, if I love you
snickerdoodles
chocolate chocolate chip cookies
bacon-scallion-cheddar biscuits
limeade
mint lemonade
strawberry lemonade
lacy yeasted cornmeal waffles with brown sugar butter
creamed corn
warm buttermilk biscuits and local jam
blue bottle coffee
homemade granola
black cast iron skillet baked cornbread
grits
a giant smoker filled with ribs and chicken
perfectly poached eggs
watermelon
real vanilla ice cream
honest iced tea
fresh squozed orange juice
R&B
a dash of hip hop
old school soul
hot cooks
even hotter bakers
corn on the cob
friends
barking

and beautiful
big
explosions of light
and colour
in the broad
grand
mighty
night sky.

happy fourth.
be safe, sane & consensual, and responsible tonight. /please.
just think:
you may even want to remember what you did today, tomorrow. just sayin'

see you soon?

last days of june/ beginnings of summer.

june 30.
the month giving is summer is soon to be over.
and then july.

i want to be happy like i was in grade school.
not thinking about ugly new york augusts and jellyfish oceans and green flies,
but endless days
music of cicadas
a bedtime that never arrived.

but i'm a bit blue.
that summer's just like fall is just like spring
because i'm all grown up now.

people i love are getting in airplanes and i have traveling-feet envy.
want to see a new place.
visit a home i've left behind.
remember walking down that street at every age

holding hands with people gone.

july is the anniversary of death for me.
    and yet i am trying to paint the month anew,
every year since.

jacaranda trees are in bloom.
and she said,
'when these bright light purple blooms arrive,
so do my favorite cherries.'

and so i remember her
with these trees
and every
day that passes.

Hot Kitchens.

Do you know what makes most kitchens really hot?

Freezers. And walk in refrigerators. And lowboys. And reach ins. Ice machines.
You wouldn't think. But it's so.

Kitchens can get really hot.

Let us not forget flat tops. And salamanders. Or grills. And then there's saute, where there might be pans sitting on burners that have been on full blast all day. And cast iron? Shit. I have seen them glow orange. For real. They can get really hot. But there's nothing like cooking a la plancha. O yeah.

What else?

Fryolators are hot. Really hot. Hot radiant heat not to mention a container filled with searing hot oil. We won't leave behind wood burning ovens and, if you're really lucky, reaching up to handle those bars in rotisseries taller than your local basketball star.

Hot.

Kitchens are hot.

I'm forgetting something? O, sorry.

Deck ovens are hot. Tandoori ovens are hot. Pulling sugar is hot and so is whisking sabayon for an hour straight. Stock is hot. Plate warmers are hot. So are bread warmers, of course.

Commercial dishwashers are hot. By health code standards they should be, at any rate. The hotter the better: less detergent can be used if heat is what is the sanitizing force. Having to put away hot dishes is hot. A lot of steam exists in the dish pit. A lot.

And steam? Steam is really fucking hot. The burn you get from steam is like being taken advantage of by a child. You never expect it. And then Whoosh! Red streak on flesh and sooner than you can say   nanosecond   you have a blister.

One could make an argument for the heat of hot ice or liquid nitrogen but they're not commonly found in kitchens unless you're ladling up eye of newt and bat's wing specials.

Hot Kitchens.

    Wait, there's more. If you act now --

Cooking and baking with a sunburn is hot. And terrifically unpleasant. After you've fallen asleep on the beach on your only day off in 3 months once, you won't do it again. Take it from me. There's nothing like reaching into a 500F oven when your skin is the color of freshly killed lobsters.

Reducing is hot. So is candying of any sort, especially when you have to boil sugar for hours to get just 2 more degrees on your thermometer. {!}

Roasting is hot. And searing. Even blanching, albeit brief, is hot. Poaching? I guess we could make an argument if we're desperate.

Funny, when you burn yourself, I mean really burn, it feels cold first. Like buried under an avalanche and getting sleepy cold. And then for a tiny moment when your brain hits refresh, it fells hot to your core. By then, hopefully, you're in shock, and so you don't feel much after that except worry that you'll be in the weeds even more. Nothing like grabbing onto something really hot and realizing later that the steam you saw was your own skin evaporating.

Kitchens are hot.

And so we tun off our minds. We make jokes. The refrigeration starts to shudder and choke, and then die. The ice machine gets indignant. Someone has to go buy ice. Which is really funny if you think about it. But of course it's not.

You might even have the pleasure of standing on the hot roof and hosing down the condenser for about 8 or 12 hours, until the sun goes down. But only if you're the chef or sous. Yes, you have to be The Chosen One for that job.

Hot.

When it gets hot ovens bake faster. Did you know that? Cakes don't necessarily rise better but everything should be checked on with more frequency.  Cold water is warm. Edibles made with yeast should be rushed like you have some place to be yesterday. Proofing the bread? Five hours is 50 minutes. Twenty minutes could be two. Be on your toes, yo, when it's hot.

Cold butter doesn't stay cold.

Sweat evaporates and it could be a few days until you really pee. A relaxing pee that lasts more than a moment. Sound gross?

Cooking is hot business.

    I haven't left out anything,      have I?

In The South there's a joke about cornstarch/ talcum powder, and the boxer shorts you shouldn't be wearing, but I'll leave that to your imagination.

Hot weather produces violence. In some kitchens it makes people fight. Or go mute. Or fuck.

Because line cooks are hot. Except when they're gross. But there's always a market for gross.

Hot.

Flirtations run high. Patience become a virtue left for the "normies"/ diners/ working stiffs/ waiters. Sexual tension is hot. So is that space between your long sleeved polyester-blend double-buttoned jacket and suffocating skin. Tempers run hot.

Some will say that the best beverage in hot weather is hot liquid. Ice becomes the enemy to truly cooling down your system. Except when dunking your arms in ice water is the only thing you can do to keep from passing out.

Summer is hot. Restaurants with poor ventilation systems are really hot. Restaurants that are free standing buildings in neighborhoods with no trees or taller buildings to create shade are really hot. Restaurants with prep stations in windowless rooms are ferociously hot.

I remember well "sweat" pouring down the walls at Gramercy Tavern. (In NYC most restaurant kitchens are located in the basement. That pretty open kitchen you're looking into as you lazily munch crudo and sip cocktails? That's for show. Only? Well I'll go on record as saying: mostly.)

Kitchens are hot.

And when kitchens are not hot?

You're not in them.