The Saga Continues into Fall

Since last post I have been studying. I aced summer school yippee!) and cannonballed into fall semester with five classes. It took about three weeks (and a 66 on an ethics quiz) to determine that five classes and full-time employment are like olive oil and water, they just don't mix. I dropped my linguistics class and all is well again.

Next semester I will take the linguistics class, literature, an introduction to fiction writing advanced poetry writing with Dorianne Laux. Since August I've been fortunate enough to study with Dorianne. if you don't know her, I would suggest a Google search. What I have learned from Dorianne is that you can throw a brick and hit a poet (seems everyone is looking to connect with their inner self), to write fearlessly, you can use the "f" word and get away with it, that writers simply must write and rewrite. I've learned that the poetry of Matthew Dickman rocks and that it is within my reach.

Adult Education 101

I managed to get through summer school with flying colors. I took two poetry classes. One was poetry as literature and the other was a beginning poetry writing workshop. Both classes were taught by Christopher Salerno. I pretty much enjoy all types of poetry but I spent a good part of my summer studying the romantics and came to the understanding that I need to be reading more modern poets. My favorite new poet is Matthew Dickman and his first book "All American Poem" arrived yesterday from Barnes & Noble.

This summer I also took a Shakespeare class during the second summer session. We studied seven of the tragedies and comedies in five weeks. You should be impressed as Hamlet has four thousand lines. I thought I might go insane by the end of it all. Tomorrow my family and I are going to see my Shakespeare instructor in "The Merchant of Venice."

Morning

Five more minutes,
chapter 10,
lost without my syllabus.
Pushing forward, reading back,
four weeks until
Shakespeare class.
I'm looking in nooks,
cubbies and dog-eared books for poems.
Brush, brush, brush-
the hair looks good painted
brown sugar.
My Secret,violets and sweet peas;
a dab of Eternitybetween the breasts.
I roll down the band,
sliding into his khaki shorts.
Five more minutes
before racing towards
the next big thing.

Honestly

I am a very bad blogger. This has been an interesting year for me to say the least. I have taken a leave from catering since Christmas after having a knee injury in January. Thankfully, I am on the mend and in good spirits.

Hubby and I are eternally renovating the house and I still have a few overdue library books. Not much has changed except that I'm a little older. I almost forgot to mention that I have returned to school to finish my creative writing degree. I'm enrolled in two poetry classes right now and will begin a survey of Shakespeare in two weeks followed by five classes in the fall. Busy life, busy me.

BABBO

I know I promised to limit myself to a maximum of five library books. But today I found myself standing in the library (again) with about ten books to donate (after the ten or so I donated yesterday.) I am proud to announce that my MIA poetry books "Late Wife" and "Southern Selves" resurfaced after a good search and after a bit of my Irish luck drew them out of their excellent hiding places. Now don't get me wrong, I love the public library and my husband and debit card breathe a sigh of relief every time I forgo my pilgrimage to Barnes & Noble or Borders.

Today, I found books on appetizers, a collection of recipes for the modern "cook", a lovely book on the recipes of Monet (I can't wait to dive head first into that one) and a book on Italian cookery called BABBO by executive chef Mario Batali owner of a restaurant that shares the same name. You may recall Mario from the Food Network and his show "Molto Mario."

Interestingly enough, along with exquisite food photography, Mario fills the book with recipes on antipasti, pasta (I adore the name Pumpkin lune with butter and sage, for full moon shaped pasta), Mare (from the sea), as well as recipes for duck, veal, pork and venison. Mario caps these with delicious recipes for cake, compote, ice cream, fruit, and finishes with the cookie platter served with affogato- a tiny cup of chilled espresso with a scoop of gelato and whipped cream.

I imagine osso bucco with toasted pine nut gremolata or a perfectly grilled guinea hen with pomegranate vinaigrette followed by a dessert of olive oil and rosemary cake. But tonight I cater bacon wrapped scallops, thai steak skewers, mixed field greens with hearts of palm, lemon chicken and orzo. I will cook nothing especially Italian and my customer will provide her own dessert. It would be lovely to plate a cool meyer lemon semifreddo with huckleberry sauce but tonight I will do as I must. As I work beside my excellent staff, I will dream of home and a hot cup of camomile tea while sitting on my vintage black and brown sofa with my feet propped up studying Monet.

Firefly's Fist Fight

My name is Mary Margaret McGee but my daddy calls me Firefly partly because of my unruly red curly hair but mostly because Mary Margaret McGee is a true tongue twister and too tough for my daddy to get out when I am in trouble (which is most of the time.)

My parents own a little cafe in Sister's Oregon on the corner of 3rd and Main called the Cooking Connection. Daddy makes the savories and Momma bakes cakes. I'm learning to do both along with my eleven year old brother Jimmy.

Tuesday before last our chalkboard sign read "Special, Monte Cristo sandwich, fries and tea $6.95" A bargain it seems as the cafe was packed with people and the phone kept ringing. "Cooking Connection, Mary Margaret speaking..." "Yes, sorry but we don't take reservations and lunch is almost over..." "Sure, two Monte Cristo specials to go."

Just then my nemesis Ricky Polley and his gang walked in. Impatiently, he said "Hey, Mary Margaret, what about me? I'm tired of waiting and we want a seat." "It'll be a few minutes" I said. Ricky shook his head and turned to walk out the door but stopped short and said "No way, we're not gonna wait for a seat in this run down cafe." Getting madder by the minute, I followed him outside. Doubling my stride, I caught up with Ricky and his gang and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned with a sharp reply "What do you want?" I answered him alright with my good aim. I drew back and hit him center in his left eye and said "You should have ordered dessert. My momma makes a wicked chocolate fudge pie."

Changes

“There are no mistakes” my Lorilynn states. “Take your journal and write or doodle.” I can’t draw but my new friend Martha can and I am learning to write but my grammar stinks. I’m learning to be married (again) and I’m learning to compromise and how to breathe when he does something not so right. I’m learning to be a mom to the most incredible sixteen year old but I am in a continual struggle with his independence and the need to nurture the brown haired boy holding a colored ball outside his Aunt Kristie’s house on Thanksgiving day. I’m learning that my parents are getting old and how I’m scared as hell to let go. I’m learning that friendship is more than a word and how mine can be misinterpreted. I’m learning that saying goodbye can hurt and how memories center in my heart which aches. I’m learning to garden and to knit. I’m learning to limit checked out library books to five and that it is OK to remember my sister when I look into her son’s blue eyes.

Cherry

Funny world,this place called poetry. Your words move and inspire. I may never know the classical music you speak of or the poetry of Browning, Shelley or Keats. But, I know your cherry thoughts and how they lead me to carnival rides and kissing red wax lips. Cherry takes me to Sherry or Sherry Berry from culinary school. Cherry takes me to my cherry red '73 bug and early morning drives. Cherry takes me to angel food cake topped with cream cheese and powdered sugar drizzled with cherry pie filling. Cherry finds my favorite popsicle flavor. Cherry takes me to my sister's hand painted coffee table. Cherry takes me to your poetry and to New Jersey pasta makers. Cherry leads to many places where I dream of open spaces and a long Sunday drive in a beat up bug.

Sunny-Side Up

Now rise and shine, my sleepy head,
Let's have some fun breakfast in bed.
I'll serve you up cafe au Lait,
Infused with smiles to start your day.

Just woken up, your sleepy eyes,
That sparkle bright at my surprise-
You see this dish and lick your lips,
Served right on time with swaying hips.

Perhaps a toast from your French maid,
Who plotted as your dreams were laid?
Melons are ripe this time of year,
And plentiful, how 'bout it dear?

One omelet whipped
made fresh for you,
With ham and cheese,
red peppers too!

One yellow rose adorns your plate,
Tomorrow, Love?...
You have a date!

*Author's Note*
Pondered while catering the US Open

Table for ten, please.

My Wednesday night writing workshop is certainly growing by leaps and bounds. Our group went from four to three to Joanie and I staring across the table at each other going hmmm...what next? How would we advertise to form the writing group that we both wanted (and needed) to help us stay on track (Joanie) or to find a track to stay on (yep, that would be me.) Finally, through Craig's List and visits to local libraries and coffee shops, we were fortunate to find our Jenn, Kat and Alisonn. A few weeks of strong female bonding (and Starbuck's coffee) cemented us as a group of five committed women writers who were all moving towards the same goal of publication (and finishing, or in my case, starting projects.) . Last week we were joined by Dave, Chris, Tom, Zack and Tim and we found ourselves in a negotiation over meeting dates and submission deadlines. Thankfully, Chris and Tim are fellow poets and I am looking forward to speaking a common language with them. Tim mailed me several of his poems and I must say he is quite talented and a great resource for us all. I'm excited to be moving forward once again. Now, what was all that Venus and Mars talk about? Welcome to the Walnut Street Writers, guys!

Totally Twisted

Gone are the sun-kissed curls of seventeen.
Prom bound, blond ringlets, wrapped tightly on top.
Loose curls flew freely, crusin' in his Carolina blue bug.

Long they laid as she learned to make love;
her curls, tucked tight under veil
witnessed marriage vows spoken,
clipped shorter, they fell, like his promises-
broken.

Gone are the sun-kissed curls of twenty-one.

Romancing Robert Browning

Who thought I would find
my own Robert Browning
writing and reviewing poetry?
Together, we were two pie-eyed love poets
whose words wooed.

Welling emotion, he wrote of dreamy kisses,
I shared poems of Miami nights.
In time, his heart was mine.

We ran his lucky dog
down the Carolina shore.
I counted the waves
and the ways
as they crashed Johnny Mercer's pier.
We stood as two wordless word-smiths
feeling the sea's salty spray.

We dined at the Oceanic;
shared crab cakes and risotto,
watched the stormy nighttime sky
and precious time pass.

He was my Robert Browning
And I, his Sherry, though only for a while.
For us, time was counted,
taking my poet far, far away.

I stand alone, beside the Atlantic
counting the waves.

Poetry is in my blood. Literally speaking, poetry is in my blood. My middle name is "Lynette" after Alfred Lord Tenneyson's "Gareth and Lynette. I'm not quite sure of the origin of my first name. If I were to reach way back, I might recall that my mother's, friend's, sister shared my name (or rather I shared hers.) My daddy gave me "Smothers." He said way back the name was changed from something to Smothers and that something's someone rode with Jesse James. My daddy was a fisherman and he could have stretched the truth.

Facing the Dragon

Writers write, right? I'm either reading about writing, thinking about writing, dreaming about writing or reading someone else's writing. Tonight at Alice Osborn's creative journaling workshop, Alice spoke of "facing the dragon," facing our writing fears. This leaves me to ponder my own writing dilemma on not writing. Tonight I mustered a couple of draft poems and several pages of writing ideas to help me say exactly what it is that this muse of mine insists that I say. Now, I need to determine exactly what that is.

Poetically Speaking

“If you are a poet, you read other poets
for inspiration, that is, for opportunities to steal,
or for the possibility that another poet
will open a door for you that you never knew
existed.”

--Billy Collins, U.S. Poet Laureate 2001-2003

Sentimental me

Call me romantic
but I like to be wooed with poetry;
your lips shaping the words of
Byron,Tennyson and Patmore.

Nourish me with wild flowers,
steamy lavender baths,
cups of camomile tea.

Sentimental, a girl who survived
Miami nights, Latin love, cooking school--
hours spent classically French--
perfecting lobster thermidor, foie gras,
buckwheat blinis topped with crème fresh & caviar.
I provide refinement
for those who can afford my price.

But my sentimental side sees the value
of a sandwich served
on great-grandma’s chipped china plate,
or the old green chair that sits empty
waiting beside my sister’s books
and worn copy
of Elizabeth Barret Browning’s
Sonnets Of The Portugese
inscribed

My dearest love,
Louise
Christmas 1946


Sherry Pedersen-Thrasher



"Everything to excess. To enjoy the taste of life, take big bites. Moderation is for monks."--Lazarus Long

Meeting Homer (Hickam)

Tonight I had the pleasure of meeting author Homer Hickam who wrote his memoir in the book "Rocket Boys" which was later adapted to film in the movie October Sky. Currently, Homer is on tour promoting his latest book.

Lovesick

No chicken soup can cure my ill,
no Dr. Seuss, not Dr. Phil,
no bag of tricks, no little pill,
I've got it bad but what a thrill!

Simply stated, I feel elated.
My temp. is up, infatuated;
my pulse is racin', eyes dilated-
straight to my heart, a shot updated.

To tell the truth, this time it clicked-
no urge to run, no nervous tic.
I'm feelin' fine, one smitten chick
been diagnosed case solved-
lovesick!

French Candy Kisses

Many thanks to poet John Barrale from Poetry Circle for allowing me to post his poem on my blog. This is certainly a sweet addition to his portfolio. Thanks John!

French Candy Kisses

Praline is from a candy family
she is her Father's daughter
made from nuts, bound in clusters
her sugar syrup sweet

on her European side, Breton married Provence
in almonds and hazelnuts, ripe songs of loveliness
fallen from the trees, sweet cream, long legged maids,
all fluttering lashes, coupled to short stocky men
in dark chocolate moustaches

down New Orleans way, her pecans sweet as bells
cling like fat vines on praline patties, a common delight
sultry candy Louisiana lover, everyone's darling,
enjoyed on a hot southern night,
inviting, they smile, sashaying out of the box

hey boy, want a benne seed wafer
to go with your soda water?

like Louisiana, her family's founder
merci, oui oui, was French
said to be Marshal du Plessis-Praslin
alive 1598 to 1675
the Candy's name originally prasline
but that's jive
any good candy lover knows
the inventor was his cook
Clement Lassagne

but I hear the stuff’s older still
in the Garden, the Big D told Eve
come here sugar, Daddy's mouth is full
I got French praline candy and sugar promises,
for you-all

by John Barrale
June 2007

Purple Speedo Man

Strolling right beside me,
he's kicking up the sand-
his body buff and bronzed,
red flip flops in his hand.

He's sporty in his cut-
offs, with a sexy, manly stride.
I grin at my friend Sandy
(who sits gawking by my side.)

The heat from this Adonis,
(can't be chilled by chewing ice)
and leaves me scheming how to have him --
choosing 'naughty' over 'nice.'

I peek above my ray bans,
perusing perfect thighs-
then wander up his body,
stopping at his steel grey eyes.

The eyes whisper "catch me,
girl, catch me, if you can-"
he winks and lets his cut-offs
slide slowly to the sand.

Embarrassed that he's caught me
I giggle, smile, then sigh-
and quickly glance back to my book
with no place left to hide.

He turns and jogs into the surf,
oh God! He's ripped and tan-
Have mercy! What a derriere!
On purple Speedo man!

Rising above the crashing waves,
he turns to flash a grin-
then shakes his golden curly mane,
and dives down deep again.

My mind begins to wonder
and wander every stride-
he's cast the spell I'm under,
with peak contracted thighs.

He waves from his Miata,
and gives a Cheshire grin-
then brakes to yell "tomorrow,
you can catch me here again!"

High five to my friend Sandy,
our books tossed in the sand-
as Fabio pales when compared
to purple Speedo man!

Sherry Pedersen-Thrasher