I'd bought it on Wednesday when the Fleishers and I attended the Pennsylvania Farm Show, the largest of its kind in the whole country.
Meditated for 20 minutes today in Sarah's old room. Often, I feel waves of happiness during the day, which I attribute to meditation.
Today, no such feelings. I had a couple of poetry/short story rejections - that are as painful now as a shoe pinching my foot - one guy's name was Michael Hathaway.
They carry on, a panel reviewed it, blah blah blah, and then he said he was sending three attachments, one of which was if I wanna self-publish my work.
Delete.
I did get a very important poem accepted in a good journal yesterday.
For lunch I made this Mushroom Onion Pie, the recipe given to me by Pamela Bednarik.
Oh my! She's been written up in Newsday.
Preheat oven to 350.
Butter a 9-inch pie plate.
Saute in butter or olive oil one and a half onions and a scant pound of mushrooms.
The mushrooms leave a lot of juice, so I poured it into a cup and drank it. It's like mushroom broth. Delicious!
Put in pie plate and season with turmeric - hence the yellow color - and other available herbs. All I had was black pepper. I never use salt, plus the cheese has plenty of salt.
Grate 1/3 of a block of favorite cheese. I like Cabot Cheddar. Here's why I buy Cabot, rathan Kraft.
Mom just called.
I told her I'd call her back in 20 minutes, when I finish bloggin.
She wanted to talk about the Pennsylvania Farm Show.
"Daddy and I went there years ago," she said.
I am impressed!
She was there and Liza Minnelli was performing.
Sarah called me today. It was so good hearing from my daughter and kidney donor. She had written an essay about Sophia Rostoff, Ethan's piano teacher. She said Ethan posted it on his blog but I couldn't find it.
Instead I found this interview with my daughter. We'll read it together, after I call Mom. Heck, I couldn't wait. It's wonderful.
Found Sarah's profile of Sophia. Read it here.
THE COMPOST HEAP
My
ears freeze as I trudge through
the
stiff frozen grass to deposit
the
garbage of the day
this
time, with great excitement.
Last
night I dined on lamb chops
sucking
on the tender pink meat
and
toss the bones
of
this oddly shaped cut of meat
on
the perimeter.
They
resemble the tall spikes
of
the peace sign
they
stay put for now
on
the growing line of
the
uneaten:
brown
egg shells
tough
asparagus stumps
lemon
wheels that in
summer
will float
soundlessly
in
glass
pitchers
sweet-smelling
coffee
grounds
flung
from an
expensive
coffee filter
Two
hours later
I
return in the dark
a
motion-detector
senses
my presence
and
lights up the
compost
heap
under
the eye of heaven.
I
wanted to know if
the
lamb bones had
been
digested by
the
fox.
Not
yet.
Perhaps
he is out there
now,
dragging them out
to
his lair
part
of a delicious supper
for
himself and the
family,
dining without
expensive
cutlery
or
ceremony
In
the morning light
clad
in warm jacket
and
beret
I
will inspect the
compost
heap
and
rejoice that
the
slaying of the lamb
has
brought sustenance
and
pleasure to man
and
beast alike.
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