My food methodology...

...is quite simple.

natural=healthy

homemade=always better

Why? Because Mother Nature is no dope--she doesn't use ingredients like Red40 and High Fructose Corn Syrup for a reason, so eat the wisdom.  And cooking at home puts you (and not the government or food industries) right back in control of what you are eating, which is the way it ought to be.  No chemical mumbo-jumbo--no artificial anything--just real, honest-to-goodness (and I mean goodness! YUMM!) food.  It's healthier for your bod, and it'll make it look damn sexier as well.

So what are you waiting for...?

My life is a cooking show

I love to cook, and I'm constantly coming up with new, hEaLtHy shtuff to make my (and your!) kitchen smell juuust delightful.

I have shared a few recipes and such on Facebook, but I'd like to start focusing on a more targeted crowd.

This is where you come in, bloggers.  I'm going to start posting my cooking tidbits here, on pardon me my reverie, for you to enjoy discovering, cooking, and most importantly, eating!

bon apetit!

I wrote you a note last night at the jazz club--

I wish you thought I was
beautiful,
captured in the light of
your six dollar beer, my
ten dollar wine, one time, one time,
and everything is
everything
is lost,
as the jazz flows
fluid through
saxophones, butter on the crumbling toast
of my
candlelight...
it's in my eyes
it's in my eyes, can't you see
through the smoke of my
complacent
guise--the notes
are eating
me alive.
As the beat
competes,
I catch your eyes--
but I'm losin'
every
time.

I need a new computer :(

I have been MIA because:

1.) My computer has irrevocably, unapologetically, irreconcilably BROKEN. It was a sad day...and now, each day is sadder.  Hence, my iPhone is now my sole connection with the outside world (ie internet) when I am at my house, and as any of you may know, is not very conducive to adding blog posts.

2.) I do have 24/7 access to Pitt computers if I take a short trip to a campus lab, however I have recently sold my soul to Hofbrauhaus and they have been quite stingy with it.

I shall return in full force, my next poem serving as testament to this...the blog eats words...it grows larger.

The sensation I feel, the cessation of fear...who knew letting go could be so right

I always want to be there then but
I
could be there now--dancing, barefoot
through summer streets
toes lapping hot pavement, grit in my feet
twirling my dress like any
dervish...devilish,
my eyes' grip on gray and silky plumes--the most lovely
kind
of muck.
I'd breathe it, in and out,
and I would
dance,
barefoot on the hardwood floors
of Heaven's basement.
We'd play Billie Holiday and those floors
would creak
to the beat
and I
would sigh
my chest would heave
in tune with someone more like me,in that place
that more likes me...
and baby,
would I dance--
take off my toe rings and stack them.
Though the pizza grease might make them slip,
I wouldn't cry if I
lost my grip, when I lost my grip...
just hold my wine and sip
and spill
with every step
I'd dance.

I take a little jazz with my coffee, please

Nothing puts quite the same smile on my face as a little Billie Holiday or Louis Armstrong, some Ella Fitzgerald and a hint of Ray Charles...jazz has an effect like not much else. 

Listening to old jazz
awakens the corners of my mouth, to the corners of my soul
--the innermost depths of my inner indulgence...
the sweet, of the beat; moist,syrupy air--
breathing in the romance of tender rhythm,
a long, slooow drag,
drawing each note out to its tip.
The swing of the tsk-a-tsk of cymbols,
a rousing, lazy-day seduction,
a memory no dreamer could imagine--
a shudder no man's hands could
reproduce.

Sometimes I wear lipstick even though I know it doesn't look so good on me.

Red
her lipstick painted on like
red and blushing cheeks or
roses red;
sinks into tiny lines,
divine,
but withering
like roses die.

Laughter stuck
behind the velvet ring encircling
applied by
trembling hand to hide the hurt.

Eyelashes bat mascara mattes,
above, below,
the withering nerves--
they strain to read, they strain
and bleed
the bitter salts
that whisper wounds unseen.


And when I look at her
I hate to know the best's behind,
stored in dainty laughter lines
that fill with red that's
run amuck
again.

I can't lift the weight of this silent thief
who kills that which it can't
bequeath
and I hate that I won't see her soul is crumbling...
I hate to watch her fingers numbing,
hear her cry--"My legs won't work."

The muscles clench in pain, constrained they wither
dry like sinew straps,
they crack
her voice like whips
before she sings.

And now she's ash and memory
blowing through the wind and free
and free and free she's free but now
it's me
who'll be
the one to do the
suffering.