Friday, June 11, 2010

Impressions jotted down on my walk this morning:

two-tone mountains
teal and pale French blue
favorite crayon colors
the river a shimmering glass

Later, got caught in a traffic jam on Warren Street.
An industrial rail track
runs through it.

Beautiful late afternoon now. Up in the aerie. Dinner is organized, ready to go in the oven soon, chicken, out-of-season root vegetables (I am in the mood for roasted butternut squash, carrot, onion, and garlic) and russets.

Had the car for a while this morning. In between walk and traffic jam stopped at a couple of farmstands. I am happy they are coming back into swing, the familiar faces of farmers' wives, everyone a bit older, me included, new faces too, a farmer's young son, I imagine, of whom I asked about kohlrabi (50 cents) which he shyly and helpfully suggested slicing raw into salad or a cole slaw.

Warm up here. I have just put my hair up with my hands and reached into a drawer for a clip. I am so happy to be able to do that, and even happier to wear it down. I can't believe I threw my youth away wearing my hair too short. I love it longer. It's a really nice style for me. I vow never to cut it short-short ever again.

Are you still wearing a beard? I wish I could feel it against me, the soft wonderful brush, cushion for your lips, your tongue...

It's amazing how expressive one's hair is. I'm wearing my hair longer now, and it's deliberate, expressive of how I feel, maybe even a philosophy. When I was younger - my hair expressed my confusion mostly. Bad perms, spikey hair at times, overly short cuts, expensive highlights. I do still color my hair, now. I'm not going gray, not yet anyway. Instead, the natural color as I've gotten older has gotten dark and rather dank. Coloring it improves the body, and it's a more flattering shade, not so different from my natural one. I do it myself, easy enough, and what a lot of money saved. I can hardly believe how much money I used to spend on highlights and a cut in the city - and to what avail? What a racket, truly.

A few days ago I was in a local department store (when I was buying my new skirt outfit) a young clerk came up to me, shyly doing her job informing about a cosmetics promotion. I hope I didn't come off obnoxious to the sweet girl (I doubt she was out of her teens) but I felt so happy to smile and say, kindly I hope (but from my lofty ladder of years) I don't wear make-up anymore - I'm free! She smiled and simply turned away. Where I live is not hipster NYC, where I might have had to endure a disapproving once-over reinforced with a withering look flung back with laser eye-contact over a haughtily turned shoulder. (Oh yeah - my current next door neighbor comes to mind, though maybe - maybe - even she is mellowing out.)

Ah, Miss Dior though, that I do miss. I would go back to that, for moments with you.

So, what else at the farmstands? Let's see at H. Farms, morning glories to send up the, the, the - what is the word for it, the freestanding teepee like structure up which one sends vines? I stopped there for zinnia seedlings (I had lost mine to a frost) but they were all out. Bought nicotiana, plus a four-pack of broccoli-rabe since we like it so much. Swiss chard from them also, plus a quart of strawberries. At the other farmstand, garlic scapes, a head of broccoli, kohlrabi, and an arms length of beautiful fragrant dill.

Then it was off to the supermarket where I did my shopping in my accustomed fashion, which is to go around the perimeter (fresh vegetables, meat, dairy) and look for the bright yellow "managers special" stickers. I buy what's marked down. That's how I do menu planning. I came away with great stuff today, organic mixed spring greens, sliced mushrooms, "artisanal" (sorta) bread (jalapeno cheese, rosemary, and ciabatta), catfish, wild-caught sea scallops labeled - ominously, now - "from Mexico."

That's how this crazy poet tries to earn her keep, by being ever so frugal in the housekeeping department. We eat incredibly well. D was home for lunch - and what a lunch with the delicious sauteed catfish with salad and ciabatta, and a chocolate chip cookie for dessert.

Dearest, I don't have a big finish for this post. I'd better go down and attend to next steps with dinner. I hope all is well with you. And so forth, as you very well know.

Two minutes later -- back from downstairs, where I put in the chickens and potatoes into preheated oven.

I'm two hours ahead of you, and now the light is mellowed and sparkly. Very unpoetic, but it reminds me of Seven-Up or Fresca. Just that tingly and effervescent. I should get out there and bask in it (it's not too strong), along with the quartet of cats who all seem to be getting along and hanging out together. It's a process, it really is.


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