"recycled as a pincushion, nothing wasted"

The subject line's from Leslie C. Chang's "Animism," which is the poem that resonated with me the most in Things That No Longer Delight Me, in part because seeing "Ahquen" reminded me of the myriad Taiwanese names for "aunt" and "uncle" I sort-of learned as a kid. It portrays a woman scratching the name of a dying man onto the back of turtles:

Now, like smoke, thread
trails from a needle stuck in the candle-end
you recycled as a pincushion, nothing wasted.

I am out of rice, so I am baking cornbread. I plan to heat up black beans and andouille sausages in a bit.

I bought a can of Chinese preserved clams a while back, I think by mistake (it's the same size and color as the tins of Chinese pickled cucumbers I'm addicted to). I do like clams, so I was looking forward to trying them anyway -- but they are the most unappetizing-looking thing I've sampled in some time (think gray-green bits of rubber with fat antennae), and they don't taste enough like something worth adding to scrambled eggs or soup or salad.

My friend Lora wrote about plants and dirt earlier today. I about laughed myself sick over the part about driving around after a wedding shower, and the last paragraph is a sounder guide to living than most of the theology I've come across this week.

I am bargaining with myself over the container roses that are reportedly on sale at Kroger this week. I'm thinking if I walk to the nearest store (which is just far enough away for me to feel like blowing it off, especially with a deadline on my neck), I could treat myself...

[Since starting this entry, the BYM's come home and I've finished cooking the bread, the beans, and the sausages. Time to wrap this up, fill my plate, and get back to work.]

[I haven't forgotten about posting more about Charleston. Turns out even that was too ambitious for this fortnight. But I have a list. I'll get to it eventually.]