First date: Red

The worms crawl in and in and out
they crawl in cricles round about
eating holes in my delicate skin
acid resistant fortellers of sin.

Ladybugs inside my head
sing silly songs about the dead
they sing of heaven and afterlife
they sing of love of husband, wife

A moth flies round and round my heart
blush brushes brushing the blood dark dart
worry tickles the antannaed head
and turns his wing a crimson red

Red fire, red anger, red embarrassed, red hot.
Red love, red blood, red danger, red stop.

For Molly

The moon grows heavy
on its string. I
consider the palm tree
on the label of my beer.
In Britannic Bold it sings
of Old Palms Ale like
pirates on a nightship
heading out to sea.
And I dream it is me with
the wind on my cheeks
and treasure just ahead.

Single Malt Sunday

Last night, Cherry and I hit up the Viceroy in Santa Monica. A schmancy hotel near the beach. We were lured in by "Single Malt Sundays" which advertised single malt tastings, each vintage for $1. This sounded a little too good to be true, and indeed it was. We figured the catch was you had to order appetizers for a bazillion dollars each and then you got free scotch. But no. $1 per vintage meant if the scotch was aged 12 years, it cost $12. 30 years, $30. And so on and so forth. BUT, luckily there was a "flight" of five scotches together with an appetizer for $20. What they completely failed to mention was that the food was going to be so incredibly good that we would have to order twice. And the scotch just got better and better as the night went on. So good, in fact, that I haven't a clue what kind we had. Only that it started out good and by the time we made it to the last glass, the caramelly molasses-ness of it with our itsy bitsy diced apples soaked in a thin house-made caramel and used to garnish our apple frangipane tart with caramel ice cream was in every way a spiritual experience.

Our first appetizer was trout croquettes with an aioli and garnished with pickled radishes. The croquettes were insane. They had to have been fried in lard. They must have had some pork bits. They were divine with scotch. The pickled radishes were even better.

Next we had kielbasa with barely pickled cabbage and the most heavenly potatoes I've ever put in my mouth. Again, something to do with pigs and fat, I'm sure.

We then had our apple dessert which we chose from a list of dishes that were made out of that same kind of apple (it was the ingredient of the week)...hot apple cider with hazelnut ice cream, apple butter ice cream, and a few other things I can't remember.

By this time we were completely trusting the chef and would have ordered any odd sounding item on the menu (usually, I can't stand chefs doing stuff like chocolate bon bons with bacon. Eew.) So we ordered one more item: crostini with chicken liver mousse, mushrooms and ricotta. Unfortunately the ricotta was sour, but fortunately it wasn't mixed with the other ingredients. And very fortunately we got the entire dish for free. I appreciated that it said straight up chicken liver rather than trying to pretend it was something fancier. I knew that chicken-liver mousse could be quite good, but I did not know before last night that it could be good enough that I would actually consider picking up the plate to lick off the last bits. Or, I suppose that could have been the scotch.

We left after four hours having spent $30 each. My only regret of the evening was that my sister Gypsy was not there to share the experience with Cherry and me. Nothing's ever perfect. But that came pretty darn close.

Stuffed Dates

Dates (the softer, sweeter kind are best)
Mascarpone cheese
Pecan halves, toasted
kosher salt

Pit dates. Fill each with a spoonful of cheese. Top with a pecan half. Sprinkle liberally with Kosher salt.

This can also be made with cream cheese instead of mascarpone. If using cream cheese, use the more firm textured dates and leave out the salt.

Blue Cheese with Hazelnuts and Honey

1 wedge blue cheese (I like the really creamy soft kinds)
1 cup hazelnuts, chopped
2 sprigs rosemary
1/4 cup honey


Toast hazelnuts in a frying pan on the stove top with olive oil and rosemary until golden brown and smelling good (about 20 minutes, over low heat). Remove rosemary sprigs and add salt to taste (not too salty if the cheese is super salty).

Plate the cheese. Drizzle honey over the top and around the plate. Dump hot nuts and oil on top. Eat on crackers. I like it especially with those goat crackers...the sweet softish kind.

Stuffed Endives

1 garlic clove, minced
1 tablespoon mayonnaise
2 tablespoons lemon juice
2 tablespoons olive oil
1/4 lb parmesan cheese, diced (tiny)
1/2 cup celery chopped fine
1 cup toasted walnuts, chopped fine
1/4 cup flat leave parsley, chopped fine

5 endives, leaves removed.

Mix everything together. Put a spoonful of filling in each endive. Eat.

FYI, the amount I made for Christmas was this recipe doubled. Also, if you want to make it ahead of time, set aside the chopped walnuts and add them just before filling the leaves...they taste better crunchy.

I didn't really think before I jumped
on the train last night and went out
from the house with my skin
unzipped and my insecurities
hanging out all over the place.

I didn't think about the fact
that the people I chatted with
were strangers.

And now they've seen me. Practically
naked. Waiting for the train in the freezing
cold.

I'm still here. Thanks for checking.

I've been challenged to write a story. The rules are:

1. 1-1000 words
2. must include a dog
3. due December 24


Sylvie swallowed the last too-sweet drop of her tea and set the mug down on the dining table. She stared out the window that was surrounded by bright yellow, cottage cheese-textured walls. Across the driveway, she could see Edith and Joe Kettleman scooping snow off their walk. It would have been nice, to have married. To have someone to shovel snow with when she retired. Not some old guy she could meet now, but someone she knew since college. Someone who she'd fought with and had children with. Like the Kettlemans. Maybe like Nick. What was he up to now? Married with a family no doubt. Happy...he always was. She smiled and wondered if he ever thought of her.

Sylvie took her cup to the kitchen. If she'd married, there might be dishes in the sink. Someone else's dishes. Maybe the spices wouldn't be perfectly arranged in alphabetical order in the cupboards above the counter. Maybe the pickles would be on the top shelf where she had to climb her footstool to get them. Maybe she would wish she could just stay home and eat a scrambled egg for dinner and drink tea and read her book and have no obligations to anyone. She turned off the tap and carefully dried the mug and put it back into the cupboard. First shelf, right-hand side.

"Dreidel, dreidel, dreidel, I made it out of clay, dreidel dreidel dreidel, I made it out of..." someone was singing outside, loud. But there were lots of transients in these parts and she was used to hearing oddities.

Sylvie hummed along as she pulled the trash out from under the sink and tied the top of the white plastic bag in a slip knot. She had a book home from the library about knot-tying and it amused her to practice while effeciently performing another task.

She slipped on her trenchcoat, buttoning it up all the way to the neck, then stepped into her rubber boots. Outside, the sun was sinking and turning the snow on the ground a delicious pink. Peppermint, she thought, and wondered how pink was first associated with the herb. She unlocked the trash gate and threw the heavy bag in. "Dreidel Dreidel Dreidel sang the man on the bench. Without thinking, Sylvie began to harmonize with the silly tune. The man turned to look at her. He had a long dirty beard and was wearing what appeared to be a very tattered Santa suit. He stopped singing mid-word, as did she. Behind the grey facial forest, his eyes looked kind. No. Familiar. She gave a tight smile and nod to the man and the Italian greyhound at his feet and headed back to the front door.

"Drei..." the man started again and Sylvie was, for a moment, 19. She was in Nick's mother's living room They were moving furniture here and there to make the Christmas tree fit. Someone had sent a greeting card and every time it was opened, it sang "dreidel, dreidel, dreidel...." That might have been the first time she'd heard the song. Nick was dancing around the room to the tune like a River Dancer on speed. Sylvie was surprised to feel a faint jab of pain still with her, as she remembered watching and thinking, I'll never be that fun. I'll never let go. I'll always be stuck inside this cell, surrounded by walls of self-consciousness.

Suddenly Santa stood up, he started to jump and fling his feet around around as he sang the dreidel song. His dog began to bark. And then she knew. Now or never. With hot tears flowing down her frozen cheeks, she straighted her arms at her side, and awkwardly began to jump and flail along with the man in the santa suit. She sang loud and off key. 3, 4 rounds of the song and she was winded. The man stopped. He looked at her with those kind, no, familiar, eyes and Sylvie, in her perfectly ironed trenchcoat, leaned her clean forehead up against the dirty chest of the tattered, matted red Santa suit.