By: EarlB, 11:02 AM GMT on May 23, 2011
White marble clouds
Float above a green sea of winter wheat:
Of souls that drowned while swimming
In the deeps of their lives.
Their spent lives
Now drawn skyward by the roots,
Transpired off to God,
Lives with grand plans,
We swim in our green sea of life,
Always heading toward an invisible shore,
We might as well swim in circles,
it's just living, nothing more,
It's the drowning that we're told matters.
Updated: 10:27 PM GMT on May 26, 2011
By: EarlB, 12:12 AM GMT on May 09, 2011
I really enjoy cooking, I'll admit. The magic of chemistry
becoming tastes and aromas is as close to alchemy as we are
likely to ever master, and it is way more rewarding. When is
the last time that you carried a newly converted bar of gold
to the bank vault? When was the last time you ate a good
tasting meal? Q.E.D.!
Today I prepared a supper that I grew up eating, eastern
European favorites that anyone from the coal region of
Pennsylvania would recognize: "blind pigeons" and "blinis".
No, I haven't taken to maiming doves, the Lithuanian dish
"halupkies" takes it's name from the Ukrainian word for
"pigeon" because of their approximate football shape (think
of the last time you saw a cornish hen). They are made using
a mixture of ground beef, rice and onion (a heaping
tablespoonful) that is wrapped in a steamed cabbage leaf. The
little pigeons are then simmered in a rich tomato "gravy".
To accompany the pigeons, I prepared the grated potato and
onion pancakes called "blinis" outside of russia (their blini
is more of a large pancake made with mashed potatoes). The
tasty pancakes are fried and are eaten with a sour cream
garnish. Mmmmm! Delicious!
All of my cooking skills are the result of a very special
gift. When I moved away from home, I quickly started missing
the special flavors that I had become accustomed to having.
I was craving those "love pats to the tummy" that I didn't
realize that I would need as the day-to-day grind wore at me.
When I went to visit my parents after a few months on my own,
I asked my mom to write down recipes of some of my favorites,
the special meals that she made by-heart for so many years.
As she made the dishes for my dad, she would write down amounts
processes, and hints for me, and although you won't ever
know my mom, you have to trust me that she held no qualms
about adding little editorial comments directed toward my
picky eating habits as a young person: "who will eat your
cabbage leaves when you make the pigeons" is a little dig that
I still smile at fondly (I eat my own cabbage leaves now, and
enjoy them!). Every time I make these and the other dishes
from recipes in my mom's hand, I'm thinking of her, maybe
even channeling her to guide my hand and heart in my kitchen's
Thanks mom, Happy Mother's Day. (I miss you)