Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
I have a cat sprawled on my desk playing with my fingers as I type. This makes typing difficult and occasionally painful. She is a good old cat, so I let her do what she wants. Perhaps because it is very difficult to make a cat do otherwise. I find I like cats more than I used to. I must be mellowing. Do you think we are like a fine wine or stellar cheese; that we become better as we age? Our casing certainly loses its glow, but the insides do mellow with time. I think so anyway.
There are I times I think I have a commonality with these roses. They are antique, they need little care and they bloom once and are then done with it.
Wall Street is back at it. Trading derivatives and handing out huge bonuses. Business as usual. I think we are a house of cards.
I wonder when I hear the argument against a national healthcare system, the one about affording it. I wonder why no one says the obvious; we are already paying. A lot. $1200 a month here in this household. 40% comes right off the top for profit. Bill McQuire walked out of United Health a couple of years ago with a parting gift of over a billion dollars. We would rather have the HMO get between us and our doctor, rather have care denied for the purpose of profit. There is something fundamentally wrong with one's life being weighed against profit.
The storm has passed us over, the sun is out and it will be another hot day ahead. Time to take myself out into the humid air so I can work and wilt. I think I am grateful for air conditioning.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Mama Ellie had a colic she couldn't recover from and was laid to rest early in the morning on Sunday.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
|by Veronica Ann Cech|
|My muse is dead, just up and died.|
Never left a note, never said goodbye.
I cajole her and beg her and still she sleeps.
My creative flair, a prisoner she keeps.
I bang my head, and bite my nails.
And still no creative tales.
So at long last I give up the fight,
Turn off the PC, and say goodnight.
And just as my body drifts off to sleep,
I hear this annoying little "peep"
I tell her . . . "No, go away . . .
I called and called for you all day! "
But the "peeps" persist and grow louder still
Until from my slumber I am drawn against my will.
So here I sit in the middle of the night,
Gleaning a strange comfort from the monitor's light.
And wait and wait for my muse to speak,
But all I get is that annoying "peep!"
You might find me one early morn , passed on , gone to my Lord,
And all because my muse was bored!
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
I have two large patches of rhubarb. Mark has always given it away because I didn't use it. I decided I was a vision of domesticity this year, leaving me with a desire to use my own rhubarb. I have made two pies and some sauce so far, so now I wanted to try something new. I did a recipe search for rhubarb cake and decided to use this one. I started before I realized I only had 1/2 cup of sour cream, so I used 1/2 cup of banana yogurt to make 1 cup. It didn't seem to matter, as this is good. The recipe didn't say what to do with the 1/2 cup sugar and the nutmeg. As it was at the end I figured it was to be sprinkled over the top before baking. I believe I was right!
4 Tablespoons Butter1 1/2 Cups Firmly Packed Brown Sugar1 Egg1 Tablespoon Vanilla2 1/2 Cups Flour1 Teaspoon Baking Soda1 Teaspoon Salt1 Cup Sour Cream4 Cups Rhubarb cut into 1/2" pieces1/2 Cup Sugar1/2 Teaspoon Nutmeg
Cream butter and brown sugar until fluffy. Beat in egg and vanilla. Sift flour with baking soda and salt. Add to mixture. Fold in sour cream and rhubarb. Spoon into greased 9" X 13" pan. Bake at 350 F for 40 minutes.
- Amanda Ferber
- Bertrand Leclair
Monday, June 15, 2009
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
A SuperscriptionLOOK in my face; my name is Might-have-been;
I am also called No-more, Too-late, Farewell;
Unto thine ear I hold the dead-sea shell
Cast up thy Life's foam-fretted feet between;
Unto thine eyes the glass where that is seen
Which had Life's form and Love's, but by my spell
Is now a shaken shadow intolerable,
Of ultimate things unuttered the frail screen.
Mark me, how still I am! But should there dart
Dante Gabriel Rossetti