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Ode to spring

April 10, 2011

A wind that cuts through clothes to skin, clouds and sliced blue sky, sweet falling apple and cherry blossoms, pigeons, pigeons, pigeons, and asparagus in the markets. Ambivalence. Spring in San Francisco.

My novel is sore in the joints, my poems are exercises in futility, one line out of fifty a pleasure, so I decided to dedicate last night’s supper (three of us, a family of four, and two friends who’d left their kids at home) to spring. Edible poetry.

On the menu:

Prosecco with blood orange juice and Campari over ice

Garbanzos mashed with garlic, lemon, sea salt, drizzled in olive oil and covered with chopped mint

Hard salami and cucumber slices for the carnivorous



Penne with pancetta, asparagus, snap peas, snow peas, garlic, parsley and basil

Green salad and a super-tangy dressing (mustard, garlic, lemon, blood orange, etc)


Lemon chiffon cake, strawberries, and whipped cream out of the canister (and into the mouth, for some)

After dinner, my twelve-year-old daughter orchestrated a rowdy game of musical chairs. After making it to the final round, I lost to a four-year-old. Sometimes poems come out whole.

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