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The subject line is from Thoreau's "Conscience Is Instinct Bred in the House." It is an insufferable poem (which is I admit in line with my general opinion of Thoreau) but that line had me giggling.
A snippet from elsewhere: "The poet is not a bag of sugar!" - Wolf Biermann, "The Poet's After-Dinner Speech"
It was a mishap-punctuated week. No lasting harm (AFAIK) was done, though, and my brain apparently likes to pounce on resemblances everywhere:
The sweet potato drippings in my oven formed the head of a flopped-on-the-floor puppy...
leftover pan juices reminded me of the water and paint suspensions used for marbling paper...
...and good things happened as well. A friend from college was in town, so I put together a few snacks, including this salad (roasted beets and pickled lemon). It looked good and tasted great with the sparkling rosé she brought over. (We went to Lockeland Table for dinner; I'm noshing on leftover octopi pizza for breakfast, though it just dawned on me that I had better do something about all the garlic that's now on my breath, since I'm singing this morning. Oops...)
A snippet from elsewhere: "The poet is not a bag of sugar!" - Wolf Biermann, "The Poet's After-Dinner Speech"
It was a mishap-punctuated week. No lasting harm (AFAIK) was done, though, and my brain apparently likes to pounce on resemblances everywhere:
The sweet potato drippings in my oven formed the head of a flopped-on-the-floor puppy...
leftover pan juices reminded me of the water and paint suspensions used for marbling paper...
...and good things happened as well. A friend from college was in town, so I put together a few snacks, including this salad (roasted beets and pickled lemon). It looked good and tasted great with the sparkling rosé she brought over. (We went to Lockeland Table for dinner; I'm noshing on leftover octopi pizza for breakfast, though it just dawned on me that I had better do something about all the garlic that's now on my breath, since I'm singing this morning. Oops...)
