Foodspiration.

White Truffles 

You’re worth your weight in saffron, I tell you;

Or, perhaps in Alba Madonna

Found by my Lagotto Romangolo

On some Italian hillside

I may or may not have passed 

En route to meet with St. Francis.

I knew nothing of gastronomy then,

Riding in a tour bus with snow chains on its wheels.

I sat with my mother playing anagrams, 

While my father bullshitted with the guide 

Named Giacomo, or Gianni, or Gepetto.

Memories like those,

Of eating Minestrone made by monks,

Make me wish I lived in reverse

With my accumulated experiences

Stuffed in a rucksack

Carried on my back.

Maybe then I’d have the right words

For you. 

A Poem Inspired by a Line I Was Fed...

...that made me think of Jane Smiley's A Thousand Acres, from which this blog gets its title, and John Steinbeck's magnum opus East of Eden.

Goddess of the No Good Dirt

For J.S. squared

Goddess of the No Good Dirt, 

Whose eyes spring open before Helios’, 

Rises instinctually from her single bed

Pulls up the threadbare quilt, then

Sidles into a modest robe.

Deep sigh. Turned knob. Opened door.

The Goddess passes the room belonging to 

God of There Must Be Water, 

Who, too, is stirring.

Not a word exchanged -

The routine telepathy.

She descends the unfinished pine staircase,

Which creaks with every footprint.

Goddess does not make eye contact 

With the relatives on the walls.

For, if she did, she’d find it hard

To complete the day’s work, 

The life’s work, 

Of adding water to a stream

That could irrigate the land

That would give rise to crops

That should make moving out here 

Worth it.

She adds water to the pot

And coffee grounds to the water

And brings it to a boil. 

Then there’s the straining.

There’s always the straining. 

A Poem About Unintended Purposes

Purpose


We used to shop 
Side-by-side.
We didn't care how long it took.
Soon we became 
Two blind mice, 
With the same depot
And disparate courses,
who met at check-out. 
Once I came upon 
A vintage-looking suitcase 
That I coveted.
Forest green, 
with cognac-colored leather.
Sized perfectly
For an overhead compartment.
It didn't get a reaction
From you, who stood in line.
In three minutes of silent waiting, 
I created a life for the suitcase, 
which I'd pack 
Full of bikinis 
And gauzy cover-ups
For the romantic getaway 
We kept putting off.
I put the small valise
In our hall closet.
I wouldn't use it. I'd wait.
The vacation wasn't coming 
And that's why I stuffed that suitcase
When I left our home
For good. 


-H.J.B.

I Want to Sell You Things...

I just moved and I don't have room for all of my beautiful possessions. E-mail me with offers. I also double as a delivery man person. 

Amazing headboard I refinished. Those are ghouls on it!

1920's Single Bed (Headboard, footboard, side-slats, box spring, and mattress)

Close-up. It's so purdy!

Gossip Bench that I refinished.

Soused Muskrats in the Boogie Down?!

Lillie!!! Jensen!!! Moi!!!

I spent yesterday strolling throughout the Bronx Botanical Gardens. I'm ashamed to say that it was my first visit to the majestic locale, even though I attended college a stone's throw away from it. Here's a list of sweet things you might find if you decide to go too:

• A zombie carved into a 2,000 pound pumpkin
• Beautiful, deadly berries that I licked; don't worry, the poison will kill my germs. 
• The rosiest roses ever!
• Fun kids that like to roll down steep hills (Jen and I partook as well!)
• Lotuses galore
• A cafe with fair prices and fresh eats; I heard the pickles weren't good, though. 
• Big trees
• Squirrels, in varying hues
• Poisoned muskrats

OK, the last bullet-point needs clarification. Let me set the scene for you.

I'm walking near a small stream and I spot what I think is a beaver. I run to it because I'm stupid. My friends run to it too because they are fearless. Said animal is NOT a beaver, it's a muskrat. That became clear once its creepy tail sidled out. Well, this muskrat was smashed and he didn't even realize that we were so near. He was hungry too. He was eating a TON of grass. Sometimes I get like that when I drink. Then, the muskrat was on to us, but he was too hammered to walk straight. He kept rolling over. What a lush?! 

Now I'm going to tell you the sad truth. This muskrat was poisoned (some angry strangers told us that, after calling us insensitive). I hope that muskrat gets better, but I also hope he lays off the Snake Juice...

Zombie Permpkin in Progress

The Trouble With Wanting Someone Dead...

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Typewriter, I Bid You Adieu...

Vive la Resistance!

A few months ago, I read an article which stated that the last typewriter factory in the world is closing its doors after selling less than a thousand units last year. This should come as no surprise since typewriters have become, for me, a decoration; however, I feel a sense of grief.

The end of typewriters is further proof that the digital age is in full swing - once popular bookstores are closing left and right and e-readers are replacing hardcovers and paperbacks. Though I'm resisting the change, many are not. For me, there's something so special about holding a book, smelling its smell, feeling the pages, evaluating the cover art, and scrutinizing the chosen font. Holding books is what I've done since childhood and what I hope to do in old age as well. I can't ever see myself cradling an electronic book in my hands as I read bedtime stories to my would-be children. I can't imagine removing the books from my home as the overflowing bookshelves are an homage to the things I've read and want to read, what I've learned and what I will learn. They are staying.

It seems like we're not too far from the world described in Fahrenheit 451 and that is alarming. Some may say that I'm overreacting and that digitizing is only making various media all the more accessible, but I disagree. Why the change? Was carrying a book or two around that much of a hassle? Does this come down to "going green?" I'm not sure, but I'm surely not happy about it.