Adventures In Cookery

Is it possible? Could I be allergic...to...cooking? (*gasp!*)

Yesterday morning, I was putting together a buckwheat pancake mix for hubby and myself, when I was seized by a sneezing fit.

Being prone to the occasional sneeze, I did not worry until after the fifth sneeze. Three is my usual max.

Another six sneezes later, I was annoyed. My annoyance was compounded by the fact that I was inclined to chase Leila through the house, since she had just nabbed a perfect blueberry buckwheat pancake, and was very generously distributing it all over my house.

So there I was: running and sneezing, spatula in hand, apron flapping, like some sort of doofus.

Having successfully cornered the pirate dog, and retrieved my pancake (for the trash, not to eat!) I gingerly sniffed the air. Yup. I was definitely burning something.

I raced back to the kitchen to find a forgotten pancake cemented to the pan, smoke clouding the kitchen.

I began to choke, and gag. I started to wheeze. Loudly.

My pulse rate climbed, and my breathing became rapid and shallow. In short, I was freaking out.

Thirty minutes went by and I was still wheezing. I began to wonder: had I developed asthma? Or did I have some sort of allergy?

It wasn't till later, after hubby wrapped me in a blanket, stuck a lime mineral water in my hand, and deposited me on the sofa (with the almighty remote control) that I decided it was definitely a cooking allergy. Or at least a pancake-cooking allergy. And he couldn't deny it. He was a witness. So unfortunately, all subsequent future pancake breakfasts will be made by hubby.

I played the pitiful princess the rest of the day. Hubby finished cooking breakfast and cleaned the kitchen.

This is definitely one "allergy" I can adjust to....

Growing Up

I am sitting at my kitchen breakfast nook, packets of seeds littering the table, pen in hand, planning our garden for spring.

We put in a small (2x6) test garden last summer, with four tomato plants, two watermelon plants, four zucchini plants, eight pepper variety plants, and four herb types. The purpose of this "test" garden was to see if we could, indeed, coax anything from the earth.

We framed out the size of our garden, tilled up the earth, mixed in organic gardening soil, and stirred in a witch's brew of bone and blood meals to nourish our new plot. We said magical incantations ("Please, please, work!") and held our breath. We kept our fingers crossed.

We cheated.
We transplanted small plants, purchased from a local market. We were actually just trying to get the gist of gardening, and see if we could keep our produce alive in the ground. We held our collective breath.

It was a success.

We actually had tomatoes, a wealth of zucchini, and a few small, (think wad of notebook paper sized) watermelons. Our peppers were plentiful and our herbs proliferated.

We were highly pleased with ourselves.

So now, at the veritable close of the gardening year, our thoughts turn to next year. The things that we didn't do, and the things we're going to do next time. The things we planted and didn't plant. It's very exciting, leafing through the Farmer's Almanac, planning our "for real this time" from seed garden. It's going to be bigger, and we're planning more vegetables.

It occurs to me, having spent the last two hours planning and dreaming of this future garden, that this growing of one's own produce, could become quite easily addictive.

When Maesie is happy, the sun shines and the birds sing.

Liminality

i am here
and i am away

i have already come
and gone

i have arrived
yet i am on the way

i am at the threshold
and i have crossed over

i am black
and white

i am neither all of this
nor all of that

i am grey.

i am in between. suspended.

i am partly cloudy.

i am neither here
nor there

i am sad
and happy
and everything in between

i am good enough
yet i fall short

i am lover
and destroyer

i am the peacock
and i am mouse

i am the owl
and i am the hare

i am static
and i am dynamic

i am unsure
but i am certain

i am not at all myself
but i am not you

Coupling (for Noah)

you broke his heart
you broke mine

you left him
you left me

we were discarded
we two

left in your wake

deprived of the sunlight
of your smile

denied the bliss
of your favor

we sought comfort
in one another

we found only melancholy

we began to choke on the rising tide
of our collective bitterness

we let go of you, for
you could not save us
anyway

we swam in opposite directions

and now i see him sometimes
walking barefoot along the shore

we walk quietly together
looking out over the grey sea

we do not ever mention
the time we almost drowned

and saved ourselves
by letting go

Singing Up the Moon

See here.
It is very lonely in this
little Sputnik all alone.

I'm on a journey to a star.
But it is very cold here.
Go with me?
We'll both be glad of the company.

You can move into my skin,
I'll gladly make room.
But I warn you
It is cold.

When your fingers turn to ice,
Your heart starts to slow
and as your eyes begin to close
Please recall, that
I did warn you.

Time-less

this drop-makes-ripple intangible,
i'm fresh out.
i haven't any to spare.
could i borrow some of yours?
when will i have more?
more to keep? or more to give away?
there aren't enough hours in a day.
hours and ours.
ours indeed. but all of ours we've wasted.
on your disease.

what you don't claim will be taken from you,
because you are too much timid.
and brave at all the wrong times.

E pluribus unum, but the cheese still stands alone.