The Peterson Melts

I have transitioned from my dad's daughter in the world of cooking to my own, verified self!

The "Dave Peterson" Melt:

Tuna, Cheese, Peanut Butter, Bread.  Boom.

The "Kristin Peterson" Melt:
Olive oil-soaked bread (fried), Fried egg, Almond Butter, Swiss CHEESE!  Boom.

Broad shoulders from the pick up truck mmhmm.  Eat it?

Transitions: Into Cookdom

What meals did we make this week?

1. Watermelon zucchini gazpacho

2. Vanilla pancakes and fruit, Italian omelets

3. Stir fry with apple sausage and squash

4. Mexi-American Avocado Quesadillas with Potatoes, curried

5. Catalan pasta with sauteed veggies and fresh, seasoned salads

6. Too much dairy

I learned how to cut a pepper.  When to add tomato.  How to dice potatoes.  How to cut a boiled egg.  How to use less oil.  Corona really is the same as Pilsner Urquell, is the same as Landshark, is the same as Grolsch.  Dispute me.  Lime and Lemon really add to the flavor of oils.  Wine goes fast when in good company.  And, cherry tomato women might be too much for a tall, dark, and handsome man.

But, we continue to laugh.  And throw pieces of pepper over the ledge without missing a beat, talking.  I need to go for a run.  Man, do I need to go for a run.

Transitions: YOU WANT TWO MORE WORDS?

Dear Reader,

Here are some words you may not know, because I just learned them, and maybe our vocabularies can grow together as we traverse these strange paralleled paths.

I found these in a poetry book I'm reading called Aim Straight at the Fountain and Press Vaporize, by poet Elizabeth Marie Young. I like it so far. The poems are mostly in prose. What are you guys reading lately?

finagle

-verb (used with an object) 

1.

to trick, swindle, or cheat (a person) (often followed by outof ): He finagled the backers out of a fortune.

2.

to get or achieve (something) by guile, trickery, ormanipulation: to finagle an assignment to the MembershipCommittee.

dirigible 

-noun

1. an airship.

         

Transitions: it's good to be moving don't make me stand

up the stairs
up up up sand falls away
but it's stubborn and
millions of children (more like
50 but it feels like millions)
jump over us on our beach blankets
and steal our water hoses to
assault dry rock with wet
and little boys play like they
always have and us we are in-
between like we always feel
lately. it's amazing how my feet
get me from point A to point
B and to look back, say damn
i done went that far and feel
proud as proud can be
but know you've still got
a long way to go before you
feel like you've made it.

i pray to God Allah Brahman
that i'll never feel i've made it.

Transitions: Old thought, new speech

I cancel, Miriam on
        goat's back (sp?)
                   cistern road wars...
://combination hail storm
         meager...         w34n1ng on Lisbon
bareback relics 0101010001001000101010010101
               Rabbi ///          {proffers m0cha}
ambling concrete m00n
                    m1m3  m1m3    ...     m1m3
doe-eyed "of course not"s       of course n0t,
are you st00p1d or som3th1ng?   c0rn3r st0r3!

Transitions: "I suddenly feel like painting extravagantly." by Meru

A Transition Poem by Meru

they said,                      “we’re going to have to let you go”

                    in a tone bereft of any emotion

                    standing silently before you,           powerless

                                                              to keep you steady

you know it’s not them,                      it’s not you

it just is.

it happens every day;

the floor simply vanishes

                                 yet again, it’s a time of transition

                                   transitioning the mind to accept

the unavoidable:                            to feel loss, and lost

                                           in a state of worry and fear

the molehill of bills

suddenly became akin to a mountain

the flurry of worries flit around

like crazed birds trapped in a house

“it’s an opportunity in disguise,”               friends say,

                                           in a tone of tinny optimism

standing beside you, powerless

to assure you any further

you know it’s not them,                       it’s not you

it just is.

it happens everyday;

               people don’t know quite how to respond

yet again,                             it’s a time of transition

transitioning the heart to feel

the much needed calmness: to function, and move

towards a forced, dazed state of acceptance

transition is hard, indeed.

We Climb Devil's Lake (or) Impala Lounge Efforts

         At this apex you draw something obscene. Your hand can't handle it. We've come too far. I nibble on your coat tail as you create new gods. Our old ones grew comely. Will you herald my late nights, my dates with all these word smiths. Will you achieve a solution for my patience cause you know I hate waiting so long to say sorry. I need you to do the simplest things: build me elemental, toward the effect of my freedom. I need you to now paint the sky of night so I can drive home on my bike, percolating with all this opportunity in me. These gentle Colorado mountains in my pants, groaning from my knees, these Fallujah clouds blooming at my elbow. I know I can do it do you know you can do it? Maneuver your muscles over the rock face. Avoid the large spider and hissing squirrel in the periphery. At this apex you've forgotten about everything and only feel body, body, body.