Burning

Random quote of the day:


"Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash."

—Leonard Cohen



ETA: Argh! Typo! I'm too lazy to change the illustration, though.


(Thank you, stillnotbored.) (For the quote, not the typo.)






( Illustrated version. )

Disclaimer: The views expressed in this random quote of the day do not necessarily reflect the views of the poster, her immediate family, Siegfried and Roy, Leonard Maltin, or the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. They do, however, sometimes reflect the views of the Cottingley Fairies.

Talapia Tacos and Sweet Red Corn

I made the best fish tacos on Saturday--omg, Oh. My. God. to die for. I also picked up some ears of sweet red corn. So sweet and delicious! Heaven. The recipe (from Bon Appétit, but really not as irritating as those recipes sometimes get) for the fish tacos is behind the cut. I used talapia. Although the ingredient list is a little long, most of it gets thrown together in a marinade, so it's really not that time consuming. I eschewed the cabbage—that's traditional, but cabbage and I don't get along.

Confession: I used green taco sauce because I didn't feel like going to the market and getting salsa verde or making my own. Yes, I guess that means I'm a barbarian.

Other confession: I used the electric counter top grill instead of the barbecue because I didn't feel like dealing with briquettes. See above about barbarism.

Yet another confession: I didn't grill the tortillas. I used an old trick I picked up from Rick Bayless's book, Mexico One Plate at a Time. Get a dishtowel and wet it thoroughly, wrap the corn tortillas inside, then nuke them in the microwave for 1-2 minutes (depending on how hot you like them) and they come out all soft and warm and nummy. If you take them straight out of the freezer, you might have to go as much as 3 minutes.

Yum. There was much snarfing heard in the land.

( Muy bueno fish tacos. )

Auto-Da-Fe

From the notebooks, April 30, 1998:


Auto-Da-Fe

Each morning when I rise
I prepare myself for my lover.
In the shower,
I rub my skin with spices,
I wash my hair with flowers,
I clean until I am glistening
and above reproach.
After, I slick myself with oil
to soften, to rejuvenate,
to invigorate, to smooth,
excising fine lines and wrinkles,
eradicating stretches and bubbles,
making my skin a stinging glory,
younger, more supple, tauter.
I make sure every nail is perfect
and free of unsightly cuticles.
I style my hair the way
he finds most pleasing,
hiding the grey with henna,
making up my face
as an artist paints a canvas.
I dress with care
to flatter and hide.
I spray myself with perfume—
not too much, not too little—
and dab it in the most
sensual places.
I eat sparingly, avoiding fat,
sugar, dairy and wheat,
brushing my teeth right after
so my breath is minty fresh.

The day progresses.
I freshen up to be sure
my body does not offend.
I wait, but evening falls.
My lover does not come.
And so I sleep.

In the morning, I begin again.


—PJ Thompson