Sunday, February 17, 2002

What I'm Cooking
I like to cook but I don't like to clean up after. (I cook dinner every night and eat it with my mom.) Anyway, my "fear of blogging" friend was supposed to come over and have supper with my mother and me this evening but she had to cancel. So, mom and I are sharing homemade cream of chicken and broccoli soup, honey whole wheat bread from Montana Mills, and a mixed green salad with this great dressing that I just improvised made of (I don't really measure) a healthy tablespoon of frozen orange juice concentrate, a scant tablespoon of apple cider vinegar, some ground up sesame seeds, some ground up walnuts, and less than a half cup walnut oil -- oh and a clove of minced garlic. I put it all in a blender. You sort of have to add the amount of oil to your own taste, but I think this is close. And I think I'll take the few homemade pierogi that we have leftover from Christmas out of the freezer and have those too. Eat your heart out, girlfriend!
The Last About Losses
Gee, I don't want to get everyone too maudlin -- I managed to get Mike going really good -- but his piece motivates me to say this last thing.

There is a poem by Theodore Roethke that I want read at my wake (well, I don't really want a wake; I want a real bash, with music and everything). Do you hear that bix? The poem is the Fourth Meditation from his "Meditations of an Old Woman."

Anyway, I went and dug up the book I have with that poem in it. Bix's dad gave me a Roethke's collection Words for the Wind soon after we met in college. His note to me in the front page says October 31, 1960. It seems like several lifetimes ago. We split when bix was 4 or 5. So much lost.

Here's the beginning of the Roethke's poem:
I was always one for being alone,
Seeking in my own way, eternal purpose;
At the edge of the field waiting for the pure moment;
Standing, silent, on sandy beaches or walking
along green embankments
Knowing the sinuousness of small waters:

and later on

Was it yesterday I stretched out the
thin bones of my innocence?
O the songs we hide, singing only to ourselves!
Once I could touch my shadow and be happy;
In the white kingdoms, I was light as a seed,
Drifting with the blossoms,
A pensive petal.

and it ends with:

Is my body speaking? I breathe what I am:
The first and last of all things.
Near the graves of the great dead,
Even the stones speak


If you don't know Roethke, read more of his stuff at
I Like This Local Columnist
Diane Cameron has a column in our Sunday newspaper that I always read. Today's is about propaganda.

She says:
We like to think, of course, that "they'' do propaganda while "we'' do public education, but sometimes there's a very fine line dividing information, public service, propaganda and even the "news.''

Having been a writer doing "public education" on the topic of education for many years, I really like this article.