Let it snow!

Snowy Night

A poem by Mary Oliver 

Last night, an owl
in the blue dark
tossed
an indeterminate number
of carefully shaped sounds into
the world, in which,
a quarter of a mile away, I happened
to be standing.
I couldn’t tell
which one it was –
the barred or the great-horned
ship of the air –
it was that distant. But, anyway,
aren’t there moments
that are better than knowing something,
and sweeter? Snow was falling,
so much like stars
filling the dark trees
that one could easily imagine
its reason for being was nothing more
than prettiness. I suppose
if this were someone else’s story
they would have insisted on knowing
whatever is knowable – would have hurried
over the fields
to name it – the owl, I mean.
But it’s mine, this poem of the night,
and I just stood there, listening and holding out
my hands to the soft glitter
falling through the air. I love this world,
but not for its answers.
And I wish good luck to the owl,
whatever its name –
and I wish great welcome to the snow,
whatever its severe and comfortless
and beautiful meaning.

It was silent until about twenty minutes ago. Then the girls discovered they could swim in the snow drifts. The cats are bored. I ate lamb chops for breakfast. Happy New Year? So far, so good.

The Other French Onion Soup

We are having cold weather in Philadelphia. I want hot comforting soup.

Pour les invalides of Plum Street, this soup is simple to make - or make for someone else - even if you do not cook much. We know who we are.

This onion and cheese soup is tasty and does not require any special cooking skill at all. The quantity is infinitely expandable, just maintain the proportion of equal weights of onion to potato. Serves 2 to 4 people.

The Other French Onion Soup

3 large Potatoes
3 large Onions
8 ounces Swiss Cheese (quantity to taste)
Garnish of Minced Celery Tops

Peel onions and potatoes and place them in a deep soup pot. Be generous about removing outer layers of onion that are too tough to cook and bad for your digestion. Add enough water to cover the vegetables plus one inch above them. Bring water to a boil, then turn down and simmer until onions and potatoes are very soft. Grate the cheese. Mash the vegetables in their own broth when tender. Season with Salt and Pepper. Stir the cheese into the hot soup and serve. Garnish with minced celery tops.

You may wish to substitute another cheese or garnish (minced parsley, bacon bits, etc.). I prefer the combination above, as taught me by an elderly French woman whose surname I never learned. She was Madame Sophie always. A little green salad and some good bread and I feel a happy well fed person.

Note: Do not overcook or your soup will be gluey. Cook only until you can pierce the vegetables with a fork. You want texture in your soup. Do not be lazy. Mince the celery very fine. You will be glad you did.

February - The Love Month #2

I love poetry. Shameless hot love. I found the Poetry Foundation. 

I went there hunting poems about Love. This poem was listed under Funny Love Poems. The poem comes from the book Bar Napkin Sonnets. 

I have lived this and I ain't laughing. Poem so good it hurts. I am remembering, lusting after and loving all and everyone who was there. I love them now. Even those who do not talk to me anymore.

Bar Napkin Sonnet #11

Things happen when you drink too much mescal.
One night, with not enough food in my belly,
he kept on buying. I'm a girl who'll fall
damn near in love with gratitude and, well, he
was hot and generous and so the least
that I could do was let him kiss me, hard
and soft and any way you want it, beast
and beauty, lime and salt—sweet Bacchus' pards—
and when his friend showed up I felt so warm
and generous I let him kiss me too.
His buddy asked me if it was the worm
inside that makes me do the things I do.
I wasn't sure which worm he meant, the one
I ate? The one that eats at me alone?

by Moira Egan

February - the Love Month #1

since you’ve been gone

since you’ve been gone, I’ve been alone.
like an arm without a bone.
dangling limply like a phone that’s out of charge.
like homer without marge.
like an egg without a spoon.
like a dugong on the moon.
like a clownfish without nemo.
like twilight without emo.
like hardy without laurel.
like high ground without the moral.
like disney without walt.
like battery without assault.
like a pet shop without gerbils.
like hitler without goebbels.
like a dilemma without the di,
just a lemma and a sigh.
like déjà without vu,
I am nothing without you.
till the day that you come back,
I’m like whitney without crack.

- Bill Bailey (via acupofpoetry)