By day, I'm a cooking teacher, foster parent, cog in the nonprofit machine, and poet. By night, I'm a creature of the internet. My soul is that of a grumpy cat who'd rather be sleeping.
unruly kings of summer
my hair, a dusty halo - frizz and knot, freed from braids and buns, the comb and brush on standby 'til more civil times. the hot
I turned eighteen in summer's longest days, my flip-flop sandals slapping in the heat against the road. The target was a ways
You came to us as summer struck: a race to organize, to get to know you quick. You had to learn new people, and a place you'd never been. The pressure on to "click"
- Third Place in Summer's Day Challenge
We ate the watermelon on the porch, on splintered steps that threatened our bare feet, when we had finished lunch - the sun, a scorch
I caught the firefly one moonless night, as we ran barefoot through the fresh-mowed grass, when all the stars above seemed extra bright.
School's Out For the Summer
The last school days drag long in rising heat: the students limp with hot and tired bones, the teachers just as weary, just as beat,
I didn't invent the pickled salad, but I did come to it on my own, on the first hot day in May, as the farm reached its fourth week without rain. I'd been hired to cook lunch for the farm crew, and it sounded like an ideal job: use just-picked produce to make lunch on busy harvest days for a crowd of appreciative, hungry farmers? Sign me up.
The boys (ages 7 and 10) show me a box of cake mix, and announce that they want to make a cake to surprise their mother. The 7 year old takes the lead, carefully reading the ingredients and double-checking that "preheat" doesn't mean "heat and then shut off the oven."