Two disasters avoided last night:

1- The dishwasher broke. The latch wouldn't work, so we couldn't run it. I saw that the second latch that "tells" the main latch that the door is closed and that it can lock was not lining up correctly, but I couldn't tell if it was hitting too low or too high. Mario was set to take it apart and I was set to fix it first to avoid dishwasher parts scattered around the house and a permanently disabled washer. I put some Nutella on the secondary latch, closed the door, saw where it was hitting, and then bent it to where it needed to be. Three cheers for Nutella!

2- We started a small stove fire while cooking dinner. Mario tried to slam a pot lid over the fire, which resulted in scorching the lid and burning his hand. I yelled "Baking soda! Baking soda!" because I was busy holding the pot of frijoles that had been on the burner that was now in flames. Mario acted quickly and poured the baking soda on the flames and presto: fire gone! Three cheers for baking soda and teamwork!

28
When I held the jewl in hand
I didn't know its worth.
When I lost it to another
The wind of loss howled in my chest.

29
Small black written letters
Can be destroyed by water or crossed out.
An unscribed figure in the mind may fade
But will never be forgotten

42
If a young girl never died
There would be no reason to brew beer.
At such a time
This is a young man's surest source of refuge.

43
If a man does not ponder death and impermanence
Deep in his heart
He may be both clever and learned
But is like an idiot
Concerning the purpose of life.

50
The willow's in love with the sparrow,
The sparrow's in love with the willow.
With love so intermingled
What chance does the gray hawk have?

*These are little gems I found in a collection of the Sixth Dalai Lama's poetry, which is listed below.

by Kathleen Lake

He's a kid: Goofy. Baggy
clothes, glasses
tipping, ponytail slipping
out of its band, as if it never meant
to be there, arms and legs not committing
to being anywhere. How did he get here?
He interrupts me, shrugs and giggles, shirttail
untucked, dawdles at my door
till I let him in.
But when his clothes come off, so does
all that. Skin phosphorescent with pure
intention, eyes with the sheen of
light on water, he holds
to what he wants, and he wants
me, the way summer wants
to come again, the way the Terminator wants
Linda Hamilton dead.
Well.
Me, I think a man, just for being
secretly and shockingly
beautiful, should get what he wants, so I serve myself up,
a half-moon of melon curving
on the cool white plate of my bed.
And oh, how his fingers
twist in my hair. How he tells me my own name
so I'll never forget.
And when he goes out later, half
slip, half swagger, back to the offhand,
half-assed world, I sit here, still buzzy,
horny, humming. Next door some bluesy woman croons
that if she can't have love, she'll die. I wonder:
did I just get loved,
or diminished? And if I peel off my last
apology, can I stand to be this
awake,
alone,
alive?

A visit to the farmers' market resulted in the purchase of a flat of strawberries. It's early in the season, but these are damn good berries. This coinciding with my purchase of new baking powder and good flour inspired Homemade Strawberry Shortcakes! Here, have one:

In the spirit of full disclosure, I must admit that this was a spectacular anomaly in my recent history of culinary experimentation. As evidence, here's a shot of our version of a blooming onion:

Ha ha ha! Get it. Mario didn't thiink that was too funny, but it cracked me up for a good ten minutes. And again while I was writing this.

I recently read a wonderful article in Utne, titled "Who's Afraid of Poetry?". Basically it was about how we, citizens of the US, are poemophobic. Poems are either old, long and boring and stuffed with words like "o'er, thee, whilst" and other words that while we know what they mean, they are far removed from every day language and present a barrier to our relationship with poetry; or they are modern, with phrases that don't make any logical sense or even (gasp) rhyme! It is as if these poems are written for people of long ago or for a secret "poetic society" that holds the key to deciphering their meanings. But this just isn't so.

The magic of poetry is that it doesn't have to follow the rules. If it did, it would be prose. Instead, poetry gets to play around with words and punctuation; sometimes the words don't mean anything, it's just the sound of the words that is important. It may be the hard crack of several K's, or the slippery feel of multiple S's. Sometimes it is the flow of the syllables, their unique rhythm, that the author wants you to feel on your tongue. Read it out loud. Play around with it.

In the spirit of poetic understanding, I have decided to start sharing some of my favorite poems. (This is also due to the fact that my life is pretty boring and I have not much else to post.) The poem below is nothing tricky. Just a clever little poem that was at the back of one of my magazines. I encourage everyone to take some time work some poetry into your literary diet.

by Eric Anderson

It's hard to hit a man with something so small;
it doesn't seem fair. I'm trying
to make a better bullet. First of all,

I've made them bigger, the size of fists,
which is also the size of the human heart.
The bullet should be as big as the target,

which is why I'm making even bigger bullets,
the size of coffins, and during their flight
the bullets spring open, so they can

swallow a man whole. Just in case I miss,
I've put attractions in the bullets to lure
the targets inside: widescreen televisions,

free T-shirts, four star meals, football stadiums.
Don't ask how, the process is complicated,
and patented. I'm going to be rich.

I've put windows in my bullets so I can
make sure I don't hit the wrong people;
I hate to miss. I'm working on bullets

the size of neighborhoods
and cities, continents; I'll have a bullet
as big as the world by the end of the year.

The gun, however, remains problematic.

I'm going to need help with the carrying
and the aiming, if you're interested. We can
kill everybody, everywhere.

You Belong in Amsterdam

A little old fashioned, a little modern - you're the best of both worlds. And so is Amsterdam. Whether you want to be a squatter graffiti artist or a great novelist, Amsterdam has all that you want in Europe (in one small city).

Ha ha! I do love Amsterdam.....I'd want to live in the Beethoven Hotel...that place rocked! And maybe if I lived there I'd have enough time to wait in line at the Van Gogh Museum and the Anne Frank House.