Out of Garlic

image from Magpie Tales 56

She pressed the flat edge of the knife against the clove of garlic then brought her hand down upon it with a sharp "smack," perhaps a little harder than necessary. She heard the satisfying crack as the skin of the garlic peeled open, revealing the smooth, white clove. How many garlic cloves had she peeled to saute in oil and add to the countless pots of tomato sauce she'd simmered for countless hours on the stove? She imagined that the months and years of her married life could be tallied up by garlic cloves and pots of sauce. Still, after 23 years, her sauce couldn't compete with his mother's. That she used his mother's recipe held no sway; there was always something missing. Probably those apron strings. Anyway, it didn't matter now. This would be the last pot of sauce he got from her. After this, he could go to his mother's for sauce. Or get it from the Ragu in the jar!

She put the heavy iron pot on the stove to simmer. It did smell good! She filled another pot with salted water for the pasta and left it, too, on the stove, unlit. He could figure out how to boil water, couldn't he? She set up the Mr. Coffee to come on about 10 minutes before he was to arrive home so that his coffee would be hot. There was a full container of milk in the refrigerator. The week's laundry was done early, so all of his clothes were cleaned and put away. She suddenly felt a small flutter of excitement and nervousness as she picked up a pen and wrote,

Dear Anthony,

I'm leaving you. I don't love you any more, and I know you stopped loving me a long time ago. There is sauce on the stove and water for pasta. Your sandwich for lunch tomorrow is in the refrigerator. 

Yours,

Angela

P.S. You're out of garlic

submitted for Magpie Tales 56

The Joyful Kitchen

image from Magpie Tales 55

Hello and welcome back to the Joyful Kitchen! I'm your host Joy Gladwell, and today we're welcoming spring with a lovely picnic lunch, just perfect for those sunny April afternoons in the park with the husband and kids! Or maybe a romantic little tryst under a tree with your sweetie (giggle, giggle!)

Anyway, we've already made our delicious chicken salad and packed it up with ice packs in our insulated cooler for no more than 2 hours, right? We have our bread packed separately so our sandwiches don't get soggy because who likes a soggy sandwich? I know I don't! We have our fresh fruit packed, yum, it looks so juicy and good, I can't wait! Now all we need is something to drink!

What better to go with a spring picnic lunch than fresh squeezed lemonade? It's sweet and tart, and when you make it yourself, you can control how much sugar your family gets in their drinks, not like those store-bought mixes. Also there's no artificial colors or flavorings. It's just so worth the little bit of extra work to do yourself! Come on, I'll show you!

First, we need about 6 lemons or enough to make 1 cup of lemon juice. Remember, wash those lemons off first! And here's a little trick for juicing them: just pop them in your microwave for a few seconds to warm them up slightly, roll them on the counter with the palm of your hand, then slice and squeeze. You'll get more juice out of them than if they're cold! You can use a fork to help you mash the pulp to get all that good juice out. It's not hard, though. I've already done 4 of them, and here's lemon number 5. Just take that knife, and slice it in...

Oh my! I seem to have cut my thumb a bit. What do I always say about using knives? Dull knives are more dangerous than sharp because you have to use more force! Who forgot to sharpen my knives? Oh dear, it does appear to be bleeding...Well, a joyful kitchen should always be a prepared kitchen! Where are my band-aids? Let's see...I'll just wrap this drippy little thumb in a kitchen towel while I hunt for the band-aids that should be clearly visible but for some God forsaken reason are NOT! Here's another quick hint: to get blood stains out of cloth, like this towel, use cold water, not hot. It works so much better. I know I'll keep that tip in mind when I murder whoever didn't sharpen my knives and failed to stock band-aids in this damn kitchen! Ha ha, just kidding!

Whoa, this thumb is sure bleeding! Soaked right through the towel! But cool heads prevail in the joyful kitchen! We'll just find some rubber gloves and stick the hand in there until we finish with our lemonade because when life gives you lemons, what is that saying? I can't remember. I'm feeling a little dizzy. Oh, look how the blood is dripping on the counter and the floor! That's not very sanitary! Remember to clean up all spills immediately with warm water and a diluted bleach solution. Yes, that sounds delicious! I'll go make one now! Oops, the floor is rather red and slippery! How did I get down here? Weren't we supposed to go on a picnic? Tune in next week when the Joyful Kitchen does...something...else. Goodnight.

submitted for Mag55

A Star Is Born (a fishy parable)

source image from Mike Shaw Photography
via Rabbit's Den

Once upon a time there lived deep within a lake a family of trout.  In this family were a Mother trout, a Father trout, 2 small Brother trout, and an older Sister trout named Estrella. They were a happy family and especially lucky, as Estrella had a talent few other trout could rival.  She was a magnificent dancer! While most trout could flap their fins and swish their tails with enough functionality to propel them through the lake, Estrella made swimming into art. To watch her swim was to behold beauty. This exceptional talent made Estella's family quite happy, as they loved to spend afternoons watching her perform her little fishy dances.  They would clap and praise their little fry with beaming fish faces.

This was not enough for Estrella, however. She coveted more attention, more praise. Soon, word got around the lake about the talented trout. Fish swam in from miles around the lake to see Estrella's moves. She loved performing for her new fans as they clapped their fins in appreciation. Estrella's happiness did not last long, however. She soon grew bored and restless again. "This lake is not big enough to contain my talent and beauty!" she complained. "I need a larger stage to shine!"

Mother trout and Father trout tried to talk some sense into their egotistical daughter. "Honey, we were born in this lake, and unless we evolve to grow legs, in this lake we must stay."

"Well, it's just not fair!" cried Estrella. "I can't be a star here! I'm being stifled! I want to be a star!"

Well, it just so happened that a mischievous Jellyfish genie overheard Estrella's outburst. When the other fish were asleep, he jiggled up to Estrella and said, "I heard what you said before and I agree! You are too beautiful and too talented to be in this tiny lake with these awful fish! You should be a star!"

"Oh, yes, you understand!" said the prideful Estrella.

"Of course! I am a genie. I will grant you your wish. Just tell me what you want."

Without hesitation, Estrella exclaimed, "I want to be a star and to be the most beautiful thing for miles around!"

"So be it!" said the genie Jellyfish.

And with that, he waved a tentacle and Estrella's world changed forever. She found herself all alone on an isolated beach. There was no one for miles around. She felt strange. When she looked down at herself, she saw that she had five legs! She was a sea star! And she was starting to feel very thirsty...

--------------------------------------------------------------

Several months later...

Two fish were reminiscing about their childhoods.

"Hey, do you remember that trout who used to be such a  good dancer? What was her name?"

"Oh yes, Estrella! I believe she did become a star, but now she's all washed up."

What Comes After

submitted for Mag 50

"So, it's you again." She spoke to me in a grudgingly bored tone. "Um, yes, I suppose so. And who exactly are you?" I asked. She gave a slight laugh, rolled her cornflower blue eyes like an impertinent adolescent and said, "That always kills me-if you'll pardon the expression! No matter how many times you people do this, you never remember any of it! You always look so clueless. It really is funny if you could see it from my perspective." "Which is...?" "Oh, yeah, sorry. You're dead, hon. I'm your guide to the After. Again." I tried to process her words. Was this a joke? It didn't feel the least bit funny. I knew that I had been sick. I remembered the ambulance ride to the hospital, then...what? "I'm really dead?" "Yup." "Then that makes you an angel?" "In a manner," she answered, picking her cuticles. She really seemed to be taking my death very lightly, and I admit, I was a tad peeved at her casual manner.

I looked around me at the bare trees, the snow (which I now noticed wasn't making me the least bit cold), and then up at the figure of an arrow which looked as if a stencil had been transposed upon the entire scene. "May I ask where we are?" "This is the 'After.' You've been here before, you know. Well, you don't know, but I do. This is where you come when you die, to decide what comes after." "After what?" I asked her. "After this life, " she said. "You know, they really should give an adult ed course on this or something so it's not all so puzzling. The life you've just led was only one possibility. There are infinite other lives you could have led. All depends which arrow you choose. The one you see here is transparent because you've done it. You know it. But you can still choose it again if you want. There are loads of other arrows you can choose instead. But you can't see what's behind them yet. You have to live them first. It's like that show, you know, Door Number 1 or Door Number 2? Maybe you get a new car; maybe you get a year's supply of kitty litter."

I tried to wrap my head around the idea of my life as a year's supply of kitty litter. It seemed too random, too cruel. "And what if I don't want to choose? What if I don't want to play 'Let's Make a Deal?'" She paused, then shrugged, "You can always opt out, stop playing, stop living again." This was getting too weird. "What happens to me then?" I asked. "Well, nothing." "Nothing?" She attempted to explain, "Nothing. Zero. Game over. It's sorta like you're a playing piece that's removed from the game board. The rest of the game just goes on without you. Think of it like you're the iron in Monopoly. One day, the iron piece never existed so no one misses it. It isn't and it never was." So now I was being compared to the iron in Monopoly. Not even the car or the Scottie dog! I had never felt so insignificant in my life (or death).

"So if you don't mind," she continued, "would you hurry up and choose what you'd like to do next because I have others I need to guide too. I hate to keep people waiting in the After. They get enough of that in doctors' offices and the DMV and whatnot." "Oh, sorry," I apologized. "It's just that it's kinda hard to absorb all of this so quickly. Death and all. Alternate lives." She smiled. "That's always what you say," she replied, "and then you end up repeating your same life over again because you can't decide to do anything different. I probably shouldn't be telling you that, probably against the rules or something, but this is getting kinda tedious from my end, so I thought maybe I'd tip you off and perhaps you might, shall we say, take a leap of faith and do something different this time."

I looked up again at the arrow from where I'd come. It did look somewhat familiar, comforting, perhaps even a bit dull. Then I noticed hundreds of other arrows all around me, pointing in all different directions. I had no idea where any of them led, and the disorientation agitated me. This was ridiculous. What was the worst that could happen? I was already dead! "Well?" she goaded me once again. I looked straight in her cornflower blue eyes, pointed, and stated in a voice that sounded much more decisive than I actually felt, "This one."

Poetry's Better Than...Nah!

Poems feed a need

Juicy words, lick up the rhymes

Sticky stanzas sing


submitted for Thursday Poets Rally Week 37, Poetry With a Theme, Poetry and Me

Largo

submitted for Magpie Tales 48

She heard the opening notes of the song with her body before they even registered in her mind. All of her senses buzzed. Panicked, she scanned around for a place to run, to hide, but she was trapped. With customers both in front and in back of her and she, with a cart full of food, there was nowhere to go. She felt the sting of tears and began to crave the warm, salty broth that she knew she'd soon taste. The fluorescent lights above shined halos around the store displays, the other shoppers, the signs. She saw it all as if through a rain covered window. She felt lightheaded yet heavy at the same time, her head a balloon tied around a brick in the bottom of her stomach. She didn't hear the woman behind her asking if she was okay. She heard her heart beating in her ears. And she heard the song...

Genesis 2:24

submitted for Magpie Tales #47

Betty wiped her forehead to keep the sweat and the rogue piece of limp, gray hair out of her eyes. She'd been dusting, vacuuming, and doing laundry all morning, and the physical strain was starting to wear on her 60 year-old body. Still, she moved with a grim purpose, her work nearly complete. She was not a woman to sing while she worked, not even hum. There was nothing enjoyable here, so why try to pretend? She lifted the figurine from the dresser to dust it and paused just a moment. Studying the sleek, black intertwined figures, she frowned. It reminded her of that biblical passage, about marriage, about "cleaving unto each other" and "becoming one flesh." If that was so, then what happened when people divorced, she wondered. She replaced the dusted figurine and surveyed the room. Done. Betty exhaled a small sigh, sat down on the bed, and closed her eyes. And then it came. The voice from the other room. "Where's my lunch, woman? I'm hungry, goddammit, and if I have to wait for your sorry ass to get moving much longer, you're gonna regret it!" Betty startled slightly, then rose from the bed. She tucked the rogue hair back behind her ear again and quietly walked back over to the dresser where she quickly withdrew a twenty dollar bill from her husband's wallet. As she feigned straightening the bedsheets one last time, she pressed the bill under her side of the mattress where it joined the others.

The Tree

We left the tree up too long
Reluctant to box up the ornaments
Wind the strings of lights
Declare the holiday over
And settle into the sameness
Of gray January days
But the water in the base
Became murky and sticky
Evaporated
And when we finally took down the tinsel                         
The branches were brittle
And the tree
Was dry and dead.

submitted for Thursday Poets Rally Week 36 

Thanks, Jingle, for all the awards!

                                                                           

                                                                                           

                                                                                                        

Make It Up Monday #1: 52 Weeks of Wordage

There was something he was supposed to remember. There was something he was supposed to remember, but he was darned if he knew what it was. John tried to focus his thoughts through the soft sweater fuzz that seemed to cover his brain. What was he supposed to remember? It was on the tip of his tongue, like the bitter taste of this morning's coffee. He hadn't had a decent cup of joe since his wife died a week ago. No, that wasn't right. A month ago? Maybe a year. That woman knew how to make coffee. John looked around him at what was once his proud home. It was really starting to show its age, like him. He glanced down at his feet. Where were his boots? Who had taken his boots? He needed his musket by him all the time now, to protect him. John closed his eyes and tried to remember. The effort made him sleepy. He leaned back in his chair. He had been a hero once. He knew that much.

Thursday, August 26, 2010 10:17:00 AM 

Make It Up Monday #2: 52 Weeks of Wordage

We're already late for Mama and now we got us a flat! She's gonna be loaded for bear when we get there now. I don't even want to think about it. "Don't you fret, kiddo! I've got a spare in the trunk, and I'll have us on the road again in no time!" Yeah, right. That was, like, a hundred hours ago, and it don't look like he's fixin' to finish this job any time soon. And he's whistlin' too! Don't seem to bother him none that Mama's gonna be yellin' and screamin' and all red in the face cuz he's late again bringing me back from his weekend. Sure, he'll just smile his crooked smile and say, "Aw, c'mon, Jess, you know I'm tryin' my best for the girl. And I sure do miss your pretty face too." And Mama will just roll her eyes and tell him to grow up, and I'll get stuck with her ugly mood the rest of the night. I ain't never gettin' married when I grow up.

Wednesday, September 01, 2010 1:21:00 PM 

Make It Up Monday #3: 52 Weeks of Wordage

“I’m not sure where to begin. There’s a group of four people dressed in Victorian looking clothes, but not totally. One has goggles, and one of the guys has gel in his hair. They approach another guy, also dressed in Victorian-type clothes, on the street. He’s got some sort of weird eye piece and a hat. He’s carrying something on his back. The group confronts him and demands his hat! I don’t know why. The guy with the hat and eyepiece says that he’d rather die like a mongrel dog on the street than give them his hat. Then the guy in the military uniform pulls out a sword and says, ‘So be it!’ That’s when I woke up. What do you think it means?” “Hmm, we don’t really do much dream interpretation any more, but how have you been sleeping?” “Fine, I guess.” “Any other side-effects or issues you’ve noticed?” “No…” “Well then, sounds like you’re doing well. Let’s continue on the same dose and I’ll see you again in a month.”

Thursday, September 09, 2010 9:53:00 AM 

Make It Up Monday #5: 52 Weeks of Wordage

  Old man sits and grins

He has secrets you don't know

Laughing, he won't tell.

Tuesday, September 21, 2010 1:34:00 PM   

Make It Up Monday #6: 52 Weeks of Wordage

Missy felt another sharp jab from Mama's finger in her ribs. "Wake up! We're about to have a photograph taken of our stagecoach journey, and you were about to sleep through it!" Missy reluctantly opened her eyes, looked at the camera, and smiled. She wondered if falsehoods could be detected on film. She was miserable. Mama and Papa kept telling her how lucky she was to be able to go on this trip to visit those springs out west, but all she could think about was how Cousin Jeremiah's head kept lolling over onto her shoulder when he fell asleep and how Mama glared at her as if she had invited this intrusion! And how her boots were too tight on her feet! And how the stagecoach kept rocking, rocking, rocking and her stomach felt like a pot about to boil over. On top of it all, Missy was plain bored. She was, by nature, an active and curious girl, and sitting for extended periods in close quarters made her irritable. She closed her eyes again and began to imagine an Indian attack or, even better, a stagecoach robbery! That's what this journey needed, Missy thought. Too bad those were only stories...

Thursday, September 30, 2010 9:45:00 AM     

Happy Birthday

submitted for image 46 at Magpie Tales

Sarah never drove without her gloves. Her naked hands against the steering wheel felt like bare feet against the gas pedal, like her body unbelted in the seat-unsafe and wrong. She deliberately left the gloves out on the table by the living room couch as she packed up her purse for dinner with Ted. "It's my birthday, so I plan on having some wine," Sarah called out to Ted in the bedroom. "Whatever you want, hon," Ted answered. "Okay, but you know you'll have to drive home this time. I don't want to have to worry about it on my birthday, Ted." "I could've done the driving last time," Ted replied as he entered the room, "but you wouldn't let me. I'm a good driver, Sarah. I know when I've had too much. I've never gotten us into trouble, have I?" Sarah didn't want to get into this argument again. She was tired of arguing, tired of monitoring Ted's drinking, tired of always doing the driving. Maybe just this once, for her birthday, Ted could refrain from overindulging and let Sarah enjoy herself. "I'll be a good boy, I promise," teased Ted. "Boy Scout's honor." Sarah laughed and kissed Ted's cheek. Then she reached back and slipped the gloves into her purse as they left the apartment.