MARCH!

I don’t like March. First of all, the name.

March.

It’s a one word imperative sentence.

I see a mean sergeant in a field, whistle hanging round his neck. He’s shouting at me, the overweight, winter-worn GI trying to rouse myself from the deep sludge of January and February, my uniform bursting its buttons, my fly stopped halfway in its tracks by flab.

I am not up for Marching. I can’t. In fact, I’ve just been able to start walking without a cane. I’m Persephone, just back from her abduction by a convalescence-comfortable sofa and a wide screen. The trim physical therapist explains that my leg muscle cells aren’t smooth anymore. They are more like a mushed up bowl of spaghetti. 

Along Highway 19, metal beasts have surfaced from the underworld. Uprooted grey trees litter the hillsides with amputated limbs, twisted fingers. A rural two-lane must double its size. Businesses and houses disappear, leaving in their places red mud flats indented with Caterpillar tracks. Traffic backs up for half a mile, from Li’l Smoky’s Barbecue to the junction of 19. Tempers flare.

I am not ready for this. The trees are starting to bud. There is a jar of daffodils on my kitchen sill. Still, I long for the white isolation of winter, for the cold, for the sense that the world can wait, because it has to. Give me some pale green days of April. Don’t push me, and I May. I love the sound of May. Full of possibility, no pressure. Just make a choice or even choose not. May gives you permission, like a door swinging wide.

The dog barks, her beagle-bugle sounding the arrival of a large vibrating truck. The floorboards in the bathroom quake; in the bedroom, the roaring continues followed by monotonous back-up beeping. Then it starts: the drone of power saws, a cartoon dentist drill amplified by a wall of speakers. 

Obviously our neighbors have a Spring project going on. I go to the cupboard for ibuprofen to head off the migraine that’s creeping up my neck like a tight hood. Light hurts my eyes. I wish I were a mole burrowed in the loamy quiet ground, listening to a neighboring flower stretch itself cautiously, patiently toward the sun.

 cathy larson sky    2015

CABIN FEVER CASSEROLE

What could be more savory than our warm turkey eggplant casserole on a wintry evening? This family pleaser is only 7 points per serving. Abigail Parsons, of Bewelle, Illinois says:” I make a double portion every Sunday, and freeze servings for meals during the week.”

Ingredients: (makes eight ¾ cup servings)

1 16-oz can of diced tomatoes   

½ onion, finely diced

1 garlic clove, crushed

¾ cup bread crumbs

1 tsp basil

1 cup grated lo-fat mozzarella

¾ cup bread crumbs

1 medium sized eggplant

1 green pepper

1 red pepper

1 cup mushrooms

Directions:

1 Sauté the crushed garlic and diced onions in a heavy skillet (in 2 TBSP of olive oil). Be sure to use a low heat and coax rather than bully the onions to turn translucent. That is the secret of using onions to flavor rather than dominate a dish.

2 While the onions are slowly cooking, go ahead and dice eggplant, peppers, and mushrooms. Cut in small pieces or they will not soften enough so you will taste that acidy pepper taste and have trouble digesting the skins and you will have to use some of your husband’s Prilosec after dinner though you’re supposed to take it before you eat but you never know whether a dish is going to cause indigestion or not, depending.

3 Add the ground turkey (I forgot it in the list of ingredients but so what? I can’t do everything around here. I do enough as it is. Anybody should guess from the title you need turkey anyway. I’m so sick of people asking me to think for them.)

4 Add basil, canned tomatoes, diced vegetables, bread crumbs and simmer, stirring often. Be careful not to spill any pieces over the edge of the skillet. For this recipe I use a large sized cast iron frying pan but who knows what size peppers they grow in Illinois, b/c they’re getting larger every year, probably genetically altered. Like every fucking other thing in the store and we wonder why so many people get cancer.

5 If the ingredients are too dry, add a little chicken broth. Whoever recommended that amount of bread crumbs I don’t know if they were kidding. The vegg are going to get onto the stove top, spilling over top of the skillet. If you have just cleaned the mouse turds off the stove top, make sure that you are the one cleaning the kitchen after dinner b/c if your husband does it he will not see the bitty pieces and you’re going to have little black droppings in the morning for sure and that’s a nasty sight, esp when a stove is white like ours.

6 Put aluminum foil over the whole thing and place in center of oven, bake for 45-50 minutes at 350 degrees. I forgot to write down 350 too but anybody who cooks knows  this is standard temperature for a casserole. Abigail Parsons would know, Abigail and her neat preplanning and portions, one of those kinds of people who’s organized every minute thing in her life. Sounds like she’s a career person. If it’s so hard to cook at night after being on her feet all day, why the heck doesn’t her husband pitch and do it once in a while? Too busy vegging out in front of the TV while Abigail heats up one of her frozen casseroles. Or maybe she’s all alone, and lonely, watching the news, eating her casserole portion on a little TV tray. Both scenarios pathetic.

7 After allotted cooking time, take the foil off the pan, and sprinkle the mozzarella over top of the casserole. Dump on the whole package, who cares about points, if it doesn’t get thick and stringy, it’s just not good. Put the skillet back in the oven and bake another fifteen minutes. If the timer on the oven cannot be heard in the den above the sound of the TV, use the clock timer with the broken face from when you dropped it two Christmases ago, you can carry it into the den. It is good and loud. Forget saving the foil to use again, unless you want to spend the time scraping off veggie matter so as not to tear the foil, a task requiring a lot of concentration and patience. And who can recycle everything anyway. The kids used disposable Pampers back in the 70s. I’m already going to consumer hell, and I know it.

8 Once the melted cheese is browned, remove casserole from oven. Let cool for five or ten minutes before eating.

Serve with crispy buttery garlic bread. Try to make this dish last for more than one meal, but nobody’s perfect.  Depending on how cold it is outside or how many days you have been snow bound, this dish is greatly accented by a dessert of hot apple pie with vanilla ice cream, covered with a touch of chocolate sauce and a handful of peanuts.

Note: Don’t forget to turn off the oven. Who can afford to waste Propane?

(copyright Cathy Larson Sky 2/24/2015)

 

More Blesséd: A Christmas Memory

Instead of a steeple, the roof had a sculpted hand with a finger pointing up to God. That was just one reason I found our church creepy, why I dreaded dressing up to go there that Christmas Eve. The old organ wheezed beyond closed doors, cuffed my ears with fearsome groans when ushers admitted us.

I held on to my mother’s hand. Everything was dim, the red carpet under our feet almost invisible. One wrong step might swallow you. My family eased into a pew, my sister and I last, closest to the aisle. Mom had a paper bag; inside were two wrapped boxes, presents for unnamed poor families.

I had to crane my neck to see down the aisle to the tree standing on the altar. It wasn’t a pretty one. Its colored bulbs were sparse. After the pastor had everybody pray and lit the worship candles, things looked warmer. All the Sunday School classes were going to take turns delivering gifts to the Christ child, a swaddled baby doll in a cradle waiting on the altar steps. 

During the second verse of Silent Night I joined the first graders emanating like ghosts from dark pews. We bumbled to the tree, knocking shoulders, where some helpful Mom with a holly corsage took our gifts and arranged them by the cradle. Most of the presents looked the same, down to the wrapping paper that was on sale at the A&P: poinsettia, candy cane, or reindeer print. Among the modest gifts, though, was a large one with a fancy red bow. Its wrapping glittered like tinsel. All of us saw it and pretended we didn’t.

When it was kindergarteners’ turn to go up, they went one by one. Some had to have a parent go with them, some didn’t. We were on the last verse of Little Town of Bethlehem when Marilyn Lynell started up the aisle on her own. She was a round child, big for her age, with a dumpling face and pale eyes. Her looks mirrored her thin-haired, thick bodied father’s. He sang a sonorous bass in the choir. 

Marilyn’s short pinafores always hiked up in the back, showing the creases of her stout pink knees. That night her sash dangled awry as she made her halting way up to baby Jesus. The box she carried must have held a man’s tie: small, flat, easy to carry. Still, not a mother in the congregation wasn’t holding her breath, watching Marilyn’s unsteady progress. The verse ended, and I saw the corsage mom at the altar kneel down to help Marilyn settle her gift among the others. Then the organist fired up O Holy Night.

Underneath the singing I started to hear a sort of twitter. I strained to see. Marilyn was coming back down the aisle and as she went, the people behind her rustled like a sudden wind. Marilyn was not returning to her seat empty-handed. Cheeks crimson, eyes glazed, she carried, in her passionate, plump embrace, a box big as her head: the glittery, red-bowed present. 

(copyright Cathy Larson Sky 2014)

ITHAKA, FOR MARGARET

 
At dawn one August morning in 1966, I stood beside my aunt Margaret on the deck of a small ship called the Elli, entranced by my first glimpse of Mykonos harbor. We would soon enter the harbor's two-armed embrace, sheltered between its long stone jetties. I was a troubled seventeen and Margaret, artist, painter, mentor, offered to bring me to her home in the Cyclades Islands when I decided not to go to college after graduation. Under her tutelage I read Eastern philosophy, practiced Gestalt therapy, read Russian novels, Hesiod, Homer, Beckett, kept a sketchbook, fell in love with Vivaldi and the power of long walks -- when we were not in the sea, or adopting stray cats. In honor of Margaret, who is now 89 and fiercely battling cancer since this May, I want to share this poem, by C.P. Cavafy, tucking some pictures of her between the text. Margaret, the seas are rough just now. I know you will reach Ithaka. Again. (Watercolor above, by me, 1972 home-made calendar.)

ITHAKA

As you set out for Ithaka hope the voyage is a long one, full of adventure, full of discovery. Laistrygonians and Cyclops, angry Poseidon—don’t be afraid of them: you’ll never find things like that on your way as long as you keep your thoughts raised high, as long as a rare excitement stirs your spirit and your body. Laistrygonians and Cyclops, wild Poseidon—you won’t encounter them unless you bring them along inside your soul, unless your soul sets them up in front of you. Hope the voyage is a long one. May there be many a summer morning when, with what pleasure, what joy, you come into harbors seen for the first time; may you stop at Phoenician trading stations to buy fine things, mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony, sensual perfume of every kind— as many sensual perfumes as you can; and may you visit many Egyptian cities to gather stores of knowledge from their scholars. Keep Ithaka always in your mind. Arriving there is what you are destined for. But do not hurry the journey at all. Better if it lasts for years, so you are old by the time you reach the island, wealthy with all you have gained on the way, not expecting Ithaka to make you rich. Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey. Without her you would not have set out. She has nothing left to give you now. And if you find her poor, Ithaka won’t have fooled you. Wise as you will have become, so full of experience, you will have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.

 About the author: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Constantine_P._Cavafy

(note: if you ordered my poetry chapbook and haven't received it yet, e-mail me at cathylarsonsky@hotmail.com)

JOURNAL ART, ETC!

They're calling it a pink moon, then a red moon! At any rate, April's full moon is here. There was a lunar eclipse, and I felt it, did you? Last night I felt like an unstuffed Teddy bear. I read a horoscope that called it a meltdown; not to worry because we would reboot and have fresh energy and ideas in the morning. It happened; here is the result:

 Thanks to computers, scanners, and Adobe Photoshop, I am able to share some of my journal art, dating back as far as the 1970s. I grew up always sketching, using color pens and watercolors, felt tip pens. Lately I've let my visual art skills slide and devoted myself to writing. The picture above is the March picture from a home made calendar I gave my parents for Christmas in 1972.

Here is the April image. I was carrying my daughter Zoe at the time, and these pictures seem so full of the anticipation of new life.

 

This watercolor is from my journal in 1977, when I worked as a preschool teacher at the Narragansett Parents' Cooperative School, in Narragansett, RI. Matthew and David had scurried to the top of a weeping willow tree during a walk, and perched there like birds. How we got them down, I don't recall.

1977 was also a time I was reading works by Rudolph Steiner, especially his theories of curative education for young children. His beliefs about the link between musical notes and colors lead me to this experiment, a free-association with water color, listening to a piano recording of Keith Jarret.

 

Before I close, here's a real life picture of the back yard weeping cherry tree a few days ago.

Its blossoms have been falling like pink and white snow for the past few days and now it is mostly just pale green. It IS still a beautiful world, isn't it? Despite its troubles.

 (All artwork and photos copyright Cathy Larson Sky, April 15, 2014)

 

ODE TO ITALIAN

It's been a long winter. Pat and I are wearing our Mama and Papa Bear physiques. (A nurse's aide told me "It's a mountain thang.") We have eaten well on these cold nights, and when the snow was at its worst, dishes like spaghetti and meatballs or lasagna filled the bill. I thought I would share a poem from my soon-to-be-published chapbook Blue egg, my heart, on the subject of Italian food because (1) It's one of the lighter poems, (2) I still need to drum up a bunch more pre-orders before April 15, and (3) I get to use cool clip art on this blog; most poetry presses frown on illustrations, unless you're A.A. Milne or Doctor Seuss.

Seasoning

a pantoum in honor of the Casa Sorelle (house of the sisters), 1970s Italian eating place in Providence, RI

 

Garlic, you have a bulbous end

like the rumps of the sisters at Casa Sorelle

and your neck is thin as the small skinny chef

who minded their gravy and seasoned it well.

Like the broad hips of ladies at Casa Sorelle,

you are the essence of well-loved cuisine:

Bolognese, marinara, simmering sauces, 

O essential ingredient in every tureen.

You’re the touchstone of memory, well-loved cuisine:

like Chianti, checked table cloths, Hope Street in fall,

where, appetite whetted by fragrances keen,

I waited to savor the thrill of it all --

It was there at the Casa on Hope Street in fall,

that I learned to mop sauce with fresh ciabatta

and drank wine and enchantment at family tables:

Saccocia, Ligouri, Ianucci, Lamotta.

I wiped my plate clean with some crisp ciabatta

far from Wonder Bread, Skippy (those ghosts of my youth).

Alfredo, Al dente, Pomidori, Ricotta --

my rescue from WASP foods, educated my mouth.

Far from Jello molds, hot dogs, and canned lima beans,

a menu of passionate choices is mine,

informed by your wisdom, so ancient and deep,

small cloves in a bundle, seasoning divine.  

 A palette of flavors grows sweeter with thyme

like the sisters and chef at the Casa Sorelle:

robust and steady grace notes in the wine

round at the bottom, sound as a bell.

copyright cathy larson sky, 2014

(Instructions on how to order the chapbook are in the McCotta's Blog entry for last month. Thanks from the bottom of my heart if you have already pre-ordered; it makes all the difference as far as demonstrating a readership to my publisher, Finishing Line Press.) 

HAPPY SPRING!