A Bag of Brussels Sprouts - Joan Shepherd

From a batch of maybe 50 cookbooks (I love to  read and buy cookbooks) I picked out an older paper back with a faded white sticker marked $1 and simply titled “VEGETABLES”. Flipping through the pages, I  found a recipe, Brussels Sprout Soufflé. Wanting something different and delicious –  that was it!

The first ingredient was 1/4 # Brussels sprouts.

Mentally, that sounded reasonable. The fancy scale that weighs in pounds, ounces, or kilos, showed 4, yes four brussels sprouts weighing 1/4 pound! Now I had a bag full and had hoped to use up certainly more than four lousy Brussels sprouts, so I added a few more. What would the pioneers have done without a recipe book or a fancy scale when crossing the plains and finding a brussels sprout plant as well as  a nest of eggs they hoped were chicken eggs? Maybe they wouldn’t try a Soufflé but measurements wouldn’t be precise. My Mormon background prevailed. I moved on.

   Two pounds potatoes! What!!! This should be called Potato Soufflé!  I also  cut that way down, cooked them separately, as directed, “in boiling water until very soft”, and read “put through a pureeing device”. Here, I ran in to trouble. Trying several culinary devices, the brussels sprouts just wouldn’t break up.

Re-reading “pureeing”, oh, puree, I guess they want then totally mushy” and got out the Quisinart. Success. 

Separating the eggs was no problem nor adding yolks but then I was to put the batter into a Soufflé dish. What was a soufflé dish? I had to call my talented cooking friend to find out, then hunt for something big enough and tall enough and oven proof but the real problem was I had probably enough batter to fill a  cereal bowl but it did enlarge folding in the egg whites. I had baked it at 350 degrees for 25 minutes when my partner came hone. I gave him instructions I had heard of somewhere  of being gentle with a Soufflé, no sudden change in temperature, not peeking into the oven periodically, no sudden jarring. we both carefully turned on the oven light, opened the door, and saw a slightly risen batter definitely not cooked. By extending the baking time, the oven door had to be opened more frequently to see what was happening. No wonder it wouldn’t rise to win a prize in my “new recipe experiments.

It took my well sighted friend to analyze the mistakes.

1. The temp was set at 300, not 350 degrees but the numbers have rubbed mostly off on the dial so I didn’t feel too guilty.

2. The recipe called for 1 and 1/4 pound Brussels sprouts, not 1/4. Macular degeneration causes me to eliminate the first letter or letters of words or in this case numbers. 

3. Only 1/2 # potatoes. Same eye  problem, but now I’m feeling guilty and embarrassed.

4. The fact that I had substituted sharp cheddar cheese for Gruyere...well, I didn’t know the difference in a Soufflé. but undoubtedly would have been more interesting.

Regardless of all this, the Soufflé tasted pretty good. I gave it 3 stars for taste and 2 stars for appearance. Served it with some delicious chicken whose juices helped the scoop of Soufflé on the plate, it didn’t taste bad at all.In fact, pretty darn good.  I haven’t lost my joy of cooking.

I can give you my original chicken recipe if you’re interested.

                                       ***

Oxymorons - Robyn Makaruk

The bridegroom had arranged everything in advance.  Their romance was an open secret and they planned to move into a mobile home after the honeymoon.  He was not known to be a spendthrift, but this was to be a bittersweet wedding, his first marriage ending just hours after the ceremony when his bride choked on eating too many jumbo shrimp after washing them down with firewater.  A friend had been hired to handle the speechwriting, and someone else had edited each piece with a ballpoint pen and given them to him as the final draft.  Both bride and groom had separately crafted their own vows that would be delivered as new and improved versions of the standard.

The venue was nothing fancy, and as the bride worked for a shipping and freight forwarding company, they chose an industrial park for the ceremony and the reception to be held in the plant itself.  A one-man band had been hired who would be presenting ‘golden oldies’ and new tunes which the artist had recorded live and these would be presented in random order.   

It was a small guest list, more from the bride’s side of the family than the groom’s.  Her cousin was an idiot savant who was into rock music.  He was a highly-paid consultant by the Pentagon as an expert in military intelligence, peacekeeping missiles and war games.

The chosen menu contained only organic produce, nothing fresh frozen as the prior event’s food had shown signs of freezer burn and tasted like airline food. The caterers were instructed to use paper tablecloths, plastic silverware, and plastic glasses all of which would be virtually spotless.

The bride’s gown had been purchased sight unseen from a mail-order store, and it was whispered that she would present herself barely clothed and with proud humility. Her engagement ring was a genuine imitation of real counterfeit diamonds.  The groom’s outfit was more likely to be along the lines of designer jeans.

How could this NOT be a winning event, so far from the standard deviation and with this diatribe containing 34 oxymorons!

                                                    ***

Growing Up- Lucille Hamilton

Auntie, as we called her, took me to the local school for

pre-admittance diphtheria shots.  I hadn't a clue what we were up to, so, properly dressed, I was taken through the town to stand at the end of a line made up of kids and their parents.  The line lead up to a card table set before the school's red doors.  A man in a white coat sat at the table, attended by a standing woman, dressed completely in white with an absurd little hat stuck on the top of her head.  There was something fishy and possibly nasty about that pair.  I saw that each child leaving the table was sobbing.  That did it.

When I got to the table, without much as a word, I hauled off and socked the startled doctor, thinking it better to take the offensive rather than wait for some feeble explanation while they jabbed me.  Needless to say, I was sent home, chastened and strapped down by lectures of compliance and threats as to what would happen if I repeated my performance.  I got my shots the next day, hunkered down into silence by the rampant and obvious injustice of it all.  Somehow though, I got the feeling that Auntie was very pleased with me.

Auntie was a tough old bird, someone mother had hired to take care of me.  We all loved her.  She was a Canadian widow of a sea captain with whom she had travelled the world.  When she came to our family, she was well in her seventies - a stout, substantial woman who was blessed with a spirit that could cut to the essential.  My parents' marriage was floundering, and they were soon to separate for the first time. But mother, in her distress and pre-occupation, had found someone so full of love that I - we -  all felt cherished.  I had long braids, something I had ambivalent feelings about as no other girl in the school had them.  Getting me ready in the morning, Auntie would take me on her ample lap to brush my hair and plait it.  We'd sit in the sun by the open window.  She would hold me and tell me seafaring stories of places called England or Greece or Japan.  When it came time to do other things, she made me feel special somehow by taking the hair from the hairbrush, balling it up and putting it on the warm window's ledge.

"The robins will come," she promised, "and they will use your hair to build their nests,"   

Of course I felt special, would you?

Long after, when we had to let her go in the wake of the Depression, mother took me on the two-hour journey by foot, bus, ferry - two of them - and trolly car that it took to get to her one-roomed apartment  on Staten Island.  It was a mistake. I'd become a little snob and saw my old friend now grown old and living in a crowded room.  She smelled old and musty, the way people do who need superheated rooms and don't move about anymore.  The walls and tables were covered with photographs and memories, which I examined, while she offered us tea.  The bathroom was shared and separate, down the hall, and this only served in my child's mind to heighten my sadness for my friend.  I never saw her again.  But she would still send us four children on Valentine's Day - as she had done when she lived with us - her homemade, cinnamon-hot, mouth-tingling, red lollypops formed in the shape of a heart.

                                        ***

Dream - Joan Brady

The dreams of wandering have begun again...

primary colors: blue...red...yellow...

high contrast...neon...fast focus.

Everywhere I see people going somewhere...

directions keep changing...

sometimes we stop...talk...touch...

but...then...we move on...always we move on...

to the next day...and its assessment of the weather

                                 ***

HOT,HOT,HOT ! - Meta Strauss

Cindy Rayburn, adjusted her glasses and fanned herself as she looked at the thermometer mounted outside her back door. “Oh Lord. It’s 90 degrees under the porch and it’s only 6 am. Today’s going be a real scorcher. ‘think it’s going to be too hot for the apartment complex’s party tonight?”

Laura Baumgartner, her roommate, leaned around the corner, already dressed for the day in her nurse’s uniform, the one with the multicolored balloon print. “Our group never says no to a party.”

Grabbing a box of cereal from the pantry Cindy said, “I hope you’re right. Jimmy’s supposed to bring a couple of friends with him. Single men! I always wanna meet single men.”

“Why? They’ll probably be duds like the last guys Jimmy introduced us to. ” She rolled her eyes and pulled her blond hair into a ponytail at the top of her head, stray curls framing her face and neck.

“Well, hope springs eternal, especially when it comes to finding Mr. Right.” Cindy scarfed down her breakfast while she stood at the kitchen counter. “I haven’t dated anyone steady for fourteen months. One week… and three days. But who’s counting? And on top of it all, today I have a huge project to complete for Mr. Bossy Davis.”

“You think you have problems? I’m hoping that UPS guy doesn’t come in today and talk and talk, taking up my time. He’s becoming a nuisance.”

“That’s not a problem, Laura. That’s an opportunity.” 

Laura frowned, “Not a UPS guy! I’m too busy for that. Mothers will be bringing in little kids with sunburns because they let them play outside all day yesterday in this heat. Dr. Patton will be booked solid and I’ll be racing to keep the office in order. I probably won’t feel like socializing tonight.”

“Well, Miss Party Pooper, it’s Friday and I want to have a fun week-end, no matter how hot it is. I say we drink iced coffee all day instead of our usual hot brew and by party time we’ll be ready to go, go, go!” Cindy fanned herself with a magazine.

“There’s lots more to do than party all the time, Cin. Why do you always think you have to have a love interest?” Laura tucked her lunch pack under her arm and scrambled out the door not waiting for an answer. Most days she looked forward to the five-block walk to her office, but today it was so humid she could almost swim. “It’s not that I don’t want to date,” Laura spoke to herself as she walked along. “But, I want a special man. Someone kind, smart, intelligent, ambitious… and, good looking wouldn’t hurt.”

“What did you say?” 

Laura was shocked to hear a voice. She hadn’t realized there was anyone else around. She turned to find the UPS deliveryman beside her. He was pushing a cart filled with boxes.

He chatted as he struggled to keep up with her. “It is a scorcher for sure. Supposed to get over 100 today. That’s why I got an early start. Don’t let these brown shorts fool you. They’re made out of some kind of synthetic fiber and are hot as blazes. UPS wasn’t thinking about this kind of weather when they chose them.”

Laura frowned at the man who kept talking like a TV game show host, never stopping to breathe. “I’ve been your UPS rep for the past 4 months.” 

“I thought I recognized you, brown uniform with UPS written across the pocket and all,” she said with sarcasm. “Thanks for the good service.” She walked away leaving him standing outside her office door.

“My name is Don,” he said to her back. “I’ll see you later?” He watched as the perky, curly headed blond with the big blue eyes rushed away. From the first time he saw her in the pediatric clinic he was interested, but, flirting with customers was frowned on by UPS.

Laura didn’t even turn around. “He’s friendly but I don’t want to get into a conversation with a UPS delivery guy, even if he is gorgeous. I have to stick to my plan for finding the right man. Educated. Ambitious.”

The day was a record breaker, reaching 105º in the afternoon. By the time Cindy and Laura got home from work all they wanted to do was take cold showers.

“You still think the party will happen?” Laura rested on the couch with a rotating fan blowing across her prone body. “I really don’t want to go.”

“You have to go. I talked with Jimmy and he says to bring our suits for a swim. And, he’ll have cold beer. By the way, he says one of the new guys told him he knows you. He thinks you’re hot, hot, hot.” Cindy chuckled.

“Who is that? Why would anyone say I’m ‘hot, hot, hot’?” 

“I sure don’t know, but he says the guy is a real catch. Graduated from Harvard Business School with him. Now he’s working his way through some executive training plan before he becomes a regional manager. Supposed to be a great guy.”

“I can’t imagine who that would be since I don’t know anyone like that. If I did I’d be dating him.” Laura rolled her eyes and tried to think of anyone she knew from her college days that fit the description.

By 9:00 the sun had disappeared and the temp was back down to the mid 80’s. Cindy lead as the two young women made their way through the small crowd that gathered at the complex’s party room.

“Oh, no, Cindy, it’s the stalker. The UPS guy that keeps hitting on me at work. Don’t turn too fast, but he’s the one talking to Jimmy.” Laura moved behind a palm tree beside the pool.

“I see him. Wow. He’s great looking. If you’re not interested, why don’t you introduce me? I’d like him to bother me.” Cindy smiled and waved to Jimmy. “Here they come and don’t you be hateful to that dreamboat.”

“He does look rather movie-starish without those brown shorts.” Laura smiled in spite of herself, as the two men approached.

“Hi there. It’s great to see you.” Don spoke to Laura. “Isn’t it an amazing coincidence we both know Jimmy? He and I were roommates in school.”

Laura just stared, speechless, as she realized this was “the” friend, “the” former roommate. Cindy stepped closer giving Jimmy a quick peck on the cheek. “Hi there. Thanks for throwing the cooling off party. And, Don, Laura mentioned you know her from work.”

                                                 *****

 When the girls returned home late that night they had a long talk. “So, Laura, your UPS guy, the stalker, is Jimmy’s friend and you two looked like you were getting along very well. Jimmy told me he asked you out.”

“Don’s such a nice person and very smart. Just think, I almost lost the chance to date him because I was a snob. What a day it’s been! Big lesson learned! Hot, hot, hot weather. Hot, hot, hotter guy!”

                                                                ***

Global Warming - John Field

               Global Warming

Everything as unreal as real can be.

Wallace Stevens

Last night in the comfort of my sleep

I had that dream again:

It’s cool and bright outside

Like the stage-set for a Technicolor movie

About the love affair I’m having

With the morning.

After breakfast

I’ve got the future in my pocket

As I stroll past hills decked out in daffodils

Which delight my eyes

Each time they flash

Their little trumpet smiles at me.

Now comes the hard part of my dream:

Suddenly and for no good reason at all

A heat wave turns my macadam road

Into a river of asphalt and tar

I’m wading in up to my knees,

So I seek shelter beneath a tree,

Knowing a chair will be there,

Stiff-backed to keep my spine upright

While I listen to the wind

Heave through every dying thing

On earth----after which the landscape’s

Not worth looking at,

Just the piecemeal junk

Of crumbling smokestacks

Belching lethal fumes in the air

Which transform the sky

Into a black hole

Only a death mask could survive.

Reminds me

Big things really matter

Because time is running out.      

            --------------

There are those whom only the dead

Can afford to forgive

Because they believe trees

Belong in museums instead of parks,

Animals in zoos.

Ecology is not one of their physical sciences.

Others exist solely for their self-completion

At drink-time: Hello, just fine, ta ta

And so forth onward to the very end.

Insist the bottom line

Is all that counts----easy math

Because only fools play by the rules of the game.

Condemn environmentalists to death

And leave it up to nature

To carry out their execution.

The rest of us shrug off the odds

And carry on----sign petitions,

Watch children at their play

And pray that when the final bill arrives

Its obscene total

Will be discretely folded over.      

              *** 

In the Shadows - Beverly Koepplin

In the moonlit shadows of my bedroom

my parents dance a perfect waltz,

gliding slowly in and out of the darkness

to the strains of the Tennessee Waltz.

My mother’s hair lies loosely waved on her neck,

her eyes shining with a secret she never shared.

In her best cotton dress and wearing the pearls my father gave her,

she sways silently on her feet, a phantom of grace.

My father holds her in his arms, strong and steady,

as though he will never let her go.

The collar of his white shirt lies stiff against his neck,

his reddened rough farmer’s skin hidden in its creases.

In the moonlight, they waltz on and on.

Between and through the columns of light and dark,

they float and swing and dip as they circle the room.

They never stop smiling, and they never stop dancing.

When at last the music fades and the final notes hang in the air,

my father dances my mother to the door,

where she turns and smiles at me, her red lips curving in joy

a gift of love through time, and then dances away, is gone.

                                     ***