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12th November 2008

raspberries and potatoes

It is November 12, and I ate my last raspberry off my bush two days ago. Yesterday morning, I awoke to frost, and the poor raspberries were all frozen to the branches in various states of ripeness, perfectly preserved in their last moments of life. *sniff* If it had just stayed warm for 2 more days, I’d had enough to add to my breakfast. Tomorrow it’s up in the 50s again (but raining). I hope there will be enough of a peak in the clouds that I’ll get to clean out my gutters when I get home.

In another food related news, I had the most awesome dinner. When my friends were here last month, Laura insisted on making a Sweet Potato Curry. But it had to be the right kind of sweet potato, the “pale variety” she told me, more like a potato than a yam. Fine, fine. Sam and I scoured the grocery store, finally finding something that was labeled as a sweet potato and brought it home, where we were flatly informed that it was a yam and would not do. Sam later returned and with the help of 2 grocers who couldn’t resist helping the cute pregnant woman, found the spud, which at least here in Wisconsin is known as a “Golden Yam” (it really is a SweetPotato. So dinner was salvaged and I instantly became converted to the yummy yumminess that is the yellow pale-skinned SweetPotato. Its texture is much closer to a potato, it just has a hint of sweetness to it.

So I was digging through my cupboards this evening and stumbled on a golden sweet potato and I knew I had to make it my dinner. I heated up some minced garlic, whisked in some fat free evaporated milk with curry power, paprika and a touch of cinnamon, poured in on the griddle and then added thin slices of the yummy spud and cooked it until all of the liquid was gone and the potatoes were soft and flaky. Perfect. You all should try it some time. 🙂

(I need more food icons)

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12th November 2008

Poetry: Faye George

Once upon a time (a really long while ago), there was a poetry meme that went around and I found the most beautiful little poem entitled “ Like Anne Shirley’s House“, which, unsurprising, completely captivated me.

I’ve since become a fan of Faye George’s poetry in general, at least those that I can find online. The language is sparse but rich in imagery. Here are two that I’ve especially liked.


No one cares:

not the professor
of rhetoric
bored by all
but his own experience;

not the editor
who, in at least
two languages,
has heard it all;

not even
your good friend
who does her best
to listen;

only the words–
the words that rise
from their accustomed tasks
to lead you

through ferns
and phonemes
into the woods,

where you must dig
for roots,
fish from the deepest part
of the stream.
-Faye George


I miss the scrape of spiked boots on the groundsel
at evening, the iron creak and slam of the door.
The stroke and pet of his hard hand gave the days
their meaning. Jack, can you understand?

In dreams I return beyond the beanstalk, fly
to my old home in the clouds.
Here it is safe, but the thought he needs me
pecks at the eye of peace.

I yearn for the oaken sound of his stride.
What you call bondage,
I would purchase with my last gold ounce.
For the smell of leather and mead, I would sell
my soul.

-Faye George

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