- Blueberry Fritatta
- Kaleberry Burst
- Raspberry Rhubarb Radicchio
- Strawberries ‘N Creamed Corn
- Pineapple Green Apple
- Bacon Boysenberry
- Seaweed Surprise
- Apple Cinnamon Soybean
- Mint Chocolate Chervil
- Cabbage Creamsicle
- Cucumber Catsup
- Muskmelon Mélange
Category: delicious.
Poem with coffee dregs in it (mine).
READING
I know pour over coffee
is all the rage but
I like mine stovetop
black as dirt and thick on the bottom
with the dregs all aligned
for the purpose
of prophesy.
A day in the life of someone else’s farm (photos).
In which I spend time with superb ladies, learn about “nature names,” drink beer for dinner, watch the last nub of sun hit a land I may someday live on, stare into the red red eyes of a rabbit, play with chicks with good hairstyles, sleep three to a bed, wake up just past dawn to milk a cow and a goat for the first time, drink muchly-creamed coffee, eat purple potatoes for every meal, meet three stout sheep…and enjoy myself outrageously.
(All photos taken by me at Kate & Nick’s beautifulheavenlyanimalfilled farm.)
A little poem of life (mine).
Life As a Woman
I braid my hair,
I braid my garlic.
I go to work;
I go to market.
“Ode to the First Peach” (poem) (Ellen Bass).
A San Diego friend emailed me this poem this week. How did she know this was the week I was missing peaches so badly? Also missing Annie of Sweet Tree Farms, the best & coolest fruit farmer in the Whole World. We do have a couple of peach trees on the property, but no fruits yet. Although there are huge, bodacious raspberries blooming. Also blueberries. And plums! So there is really nothing for me to complain about. But ooh. The joy of eating a peach. While standing over the sink. The juice dripping down my chin. And looking out the window as I bite. And taking the pit in my fingers. And throwing it outside. Just in case. It wants to grow. Into a peach tree of its own.
**
Ode to the First Peach
Only one insect has feasted here,
a clear stub of resin
plugs the scar. And the hollow
where the steam was severed
shines with juice.
The fur still silvered
like a caul. Even
in the next minute
the hairs will darken,
turn more golden in my palm.
Heavier, this flesh,
than you would imagine
like the sudden
weight of a newborn.
Oh what a marriage
of citron and blush!
It could be a planet
reflected through a hall
of mirrors. Or
what a swan becomes
when a fairy shoots it
from the sky at dawn.
At the beginning of the world,
when the first dense pith
was ravished and the stars
were not yet lustrous
coins fallen from the
pockets of night,
who could have dreamed
this would be curried
from the chaos.
Scent of morning and sugar,
bruise and hunger.
Silent, swollen, clefted life,
remnant always remaking itself
out of that first flaming ripeness.
Landscapes (little farmy poem) (mine).
Landscapes
Last year I met garlic scapes
and I loved them on impact
and incorrectly called them snapes
for almost a year. Then I learned
their name and learned their twisting
goose-necked beauty and cut them
thinly into dishes. Now they grow
in rows outside our kitchen
and they grow in rows at the farm
where I work in the kitchen
and they’re filling the crisper drawer
and they’re all over our salads
and they’re harvested in baskets
and they’re not a food to sustain a nation
or even a main meal ingredient
but they’re one of our first little harvests
and for that I am grateful.
(Photo by my partner & co-farmer & longtime love Misha, whose blog is titled Microcosmic DreamSCAPES. Coincidence? I think yes.)
(For more of Misha’s farm photos, click here.)
(We are Free Verse Farm!)
Bacon Poem #1 (mine).
Bacon Poem #1
Bacon
is the reward we get
for cooking
ourselves bacon.
“Cosmology of Breakfast” (poem) (mine).
Cosmology of Breakfast
What does the sun taste like?
An egg yolk.
What does the moon taste like?
Soda bread.
What do the stars taste like?
Salt and pepper.
Why not: a birthday collage.
Dear Scott,
I made you this internet collage comprised of (beautiful) images that remind me of you. I really hope you like it.
Love,
Taylor
Happiest of days to you, friend. I hope your weekend is full of even better things than Ellie giving the sneaky middle finger to you in a photo, though it’s hard to imagine what’s better than that.
Snowstorm chitchat (plus images).
Today I bought blood oranges. Like the ones below painted by Emily Proud, an artist I discovered through another artist, Lisa Congdon. I don’t know either of them personally but maybe someday they’ll come over to the farm and eat citrus with me.
I bought them in preparation for The Storm. I also bought bacon, of course. And, as usual, kale. Also milk. And a knobby three-knuckle piece of fresh ginger.
Meanwhile, down at the coop, the chickens are all, “Where is the grass? Why can’t I have it? Why aren’t babies coming out of these eggs I’m sitting on? I’m cold!” They’re huddled on their roosts underneath their red-bulbed headlamps as I write this. If I make a ruckus the rooster Claude will crow & crow until he lets me know that he heard me do it. Having a rooster really gets one thinking about the term “cocky.” That dude walks around like he’s the king of something awesome. Because he is, I guess.
panache, perhaps 