409: a little something

My poem "Traver K Sutton Will Write Letters to His Wife" is in the current issue of Conte.

It's nice, but sad timing: I was just informed yesterday my grandmother's kidney functions have dropped, which means she's officially in end-stage kidney failure and will begin dialysis. The official functioning went from 18% to 9%. This is the same grandmother, the wife, of course, of the poem, who broke her hip just after my birthday, and who I love a great big ol' deal.

More poems from this series, and other poems, are in the works for publication; I'll let you know when that will be.

xo

408: on the fiscal responsibility I so lack

About a week and a half ago, I got an email accepting me into Hedgebrook's Master Class with Carolyn Forche. It meets the week before spring break: I arranged my syllabus so this would be the week students had off for conferences, and I prepared myself for Washington in spring. But as I peer into the empty coffers of my bank account, I realize I really cannot go. Not if I want to be fiscally responsible, and I do. Because when his whole MFA thing is over, I'm not sure I will be like my compatriots, jumping into a full-time job, the sort that comes with health insurance and retirement benefits. The bank account just got more slender.

That, and we keep talking about family shifts and, I think, when the time comes, I suppose the tuition to something as glorious as Hedgebrook might be better spent on cribs and rocking chairs. Curses to being an adult.

Ryan is doing taxes today, and it's mortgage-paying time, so all these ridiculous dollar signs are butting up against my long-time hope of being at Hedgebrook, of that need for travel, of that fantasy of being in a cabin and writing and meeting up with other writers, a whole week of that, with a writer who has meant so much to my own tenuous courage as a poet.

But then the practical world descends and I look at my medical bills stacking up, my car insurance, the surgeon's cell phone I need to call for Penelope's strange limp, the furnace inspector I need to call. These two worlds will mesh, I suppose, but they aren't just now. Frugality is a tricky thing. Gotta take care of that little guy up there, and the others, and anything that is to come.

407

I can't believe I missed this hilariously sweet image in my first go-round of Christian holiday pictures. Enjoy: it reminds me of my long-term baby-sitting, and what I imagine is fairly typical of leisure time in the Nelson household.

406: kale and white bean soup

About a month ago, I made a kale and white bean soup for some of my favorite people, promised I would post the recipe but, you know--

So here it is, and I would make it again. In this case, I omitted the Parmesan as my friends are vegan, but included it in my bowl. Also: my picky husband ate it.

KALE & WHITE BEAN SOUP
hands-on time: 25 minutes
total time: 30 minutes
serves 8

- 2 tablespoons olive oil
- 4 cloves garlic, chopped
- 2 stalks celery, sliced
- 1 large onion, chopped
- Kosher salt and black pepper
- 2 15.5-ounce cans cannellini beans, rinsed
- 1 cup small soup pasta (4 ouncesl such as tubettini, ditalini, or orzo)
- 1 bunch kale, thick stems discarded and leaves torn into 2-inch pieces (8 cups)
- 2 tablespoons chopped fresh rosemary
- 1/2 cup shaved Parmesan (2 ounces), plus 1 piece Parmesan rind (optional)
- 1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
- 1 loaf country bread, warmed

1. Heat the oil in a large pot over medium-high heat. Add the garlic, celery, onion, 1 1/2 teaspoons salt, and 1/2 teaspoon pepper and cook, stirring occasionally, until tender, 4 to 6 minutes.

2. Add the beans, pasta, kale, rosemary, 8 cups water, and the Parmesan rind (if using); cover and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer until the pasta and kale are tender, 4 to 5 minutes.

3. Remove the Parmesan rind. Stir in the lemon juice and sprinkle with the shaved Parmesan before serving. Serve with the bread.

from January 2010 issue of Cooking Light

I've also decided to keep collecting favorite recipes here. There's not a lot just yet, but it will grow.

Last night at dinner, as I was shuffling hamburger patties in a skillet, I feel something may have switched inside of me. I failed at my first attempt at returning to the vegetarian fold, but this time, it felt as if there were a full mental shift, true disgust as I sifted around in the grease, and felt myself pulling open the cabinets, finding flat noodles, making a meal of my own. I've decided not to proclaim myself vegetarian just yet, but I'm giving myself a week of it--making those conscious choices, scanning menus and recipe books for the meatless options--and I'll see how I feel at the end of the week. Going vegetarian again is one of my homesteading top ten goals of the year; perhaps this will be the second (vermicompost up and running again being the first) that gets accomplished.

405: beer dabbler

Saturday afternoon, we made our way up to the cities for a beer festival. I promised my beloved I would be designated driver, though I did pay the taster's entry fee and had some unfiltered honey Crispin, which uses organic apples, honey, maple, and no added colorants, sorbate, or benzoate preservatives. Very tasty--and locally headquartered, as a friend pointed out, but made in California. Almost perfect.

The festival was outdoors, a part of the winter carnival, and I neglected to follow Ryan's advice--wear under armor, my hiking boots, bring extra gloves. It was in the thirties, slushy, rain mixed with snow, not frigid as it might be on our weekend hikes in the bluffs. Of course, in these cases, we're moving, and at the festival, we were huddled in a dreary circle, little glass cups clutched in oversized gloved hands, watching to see who would fall first on what was turning into a skating rink.

In the end, my less-alcohol infused body helped my mouth pipe up a request to depart, and we headed for Pizza Luce, where we fell in love with the Athena, and they--well, had more beer.


It's good to have such good friends. xo

404

This past weekend I had another Twin Cities adventure: on Saturday, I drove my former local high school student Brianna up to Como Conservatory, meeting my friend Meryl on the way.

Of course, before I delve into the Como experience, I ought to back up and explain all the little Love and Other Catastrophes that happened that morning: I meant to print out my chapbook to mail on the way out of town, but there were a series of issues, along with poor directions to pick up Brianna, and then a few campus mishaps, that made what should have been a brief sojourn into a disastrous romp. And, unfortunately, all these little trip-ups, including the big sigh at the end when I missed the postmark date by thirteen minutes, we arrived at the Conservatory with only eighteen minutes of open time.

And we whipped through those earthy rooms, such a contrast to my first lingering visit two years ago. We managed to glimpse each room, the inhale that smell of green life, get a glimpse of Chloe the sloth, who was quite still and typically lazy, and slip out the door before we were locked in.


After, we went to a Japanese restaurant, something my friend Meryl, who was still battling jet lag from her trip to Japan with her husband, might not have the appetite for, but we delved into the (vegan) sushi, the tempura and udon with gusto. I even managed to get through the meal with chopsticks alone, something that probably was a first for me (and now, that sort of fun newness of it, I want to eat everything with two strips of bamboo).

It was one of those cozy winter days, not too cold out to become an ice castle ourselves, but chilly enough that being in a well-lit restaurant was comforting, bowls of soup and warm edamame before us.

403: 18 months

Ryan and I drove up and over, a little jaunt, a belated celebration of the winter holidays with my oldest and dearest friend. Her son, our godson, is now something like eighteen months old, which means he has a personality, a kind of communication. He's a charmer, that is for certain. I also think I may have glimpsed what he might be in the back of a high school classroom, and I have to admit: it reminded me of the long afternoons teaching. I also loved this glimpse: my husband with a little one, instructing him, telling him what he needed, and Ryan somehow finding a way to charm him right back.