They bring me back to my stoop days, decades ago, when I smudged their bellies on my forehead as makeup, also called war paint. Will they make the same impression decades from now, on those I love beyond measure, in flooded or scorched backyards I'll never see? You can tell the temperature by the firefly rate of thorax blinking, which can be hypnotic, like the gleam of this cucumber seed in fluorescent kitchen light. Those seeds, covered in slime, scoot like baby roaches onto counter or floor when you run a spoon down the center of your … [Read more...]
Kapusta!
[Or Polish cabbage soup from a Ukrainian Jew] I haven't posted for a while, I know, but changes in my life urge me to find that thread that leads to writing. I've had trouble cooking, too, but for that I've found a trick: pretend that I'm cooking for company, for neighbors and friends. Then, when I'm done, I can invite them to share -- or not. Here's a recent example. My late husband, John, was taught by his mother, Mary Urzendowski Perreault, to cook kapusta, cabbage soup. Hers is a Polish version, natch, yet not too far in taste from … [Read more...]