My roommates and I hosted a housewarming party this past weekend, preempted by a dinner party for the friends of ours who helped us move in. This means that once again my secret powers of sangria making were called upon.
This time I made both a red and white (well, blush, really.)
"White":
cheap box wine (I don't really know of another brand besides Franzia, do you?)
lime
green apple
pear
grapefruit
tangelo
OJ
ginger ale
Red:
cheap box wine
lemon
red apple
plum
blackberries
pomegranate seeds
OJ
ginger ale
(rum)
Of course the beauty of sangria is that you can truly make it your own and continuously experiment with fruit variations but I gotta tell you ... the red was down right phenomenal. Though I should have remembered that we had added rum to it before consuming so much (oops.)
I'm aware that I still haven't posted my trip from a month ago yet but ... yeah, I have no excuse beyond the fact that I love having a full social calendar. And for the next two weeks while my friend Mike is visiting from China I will absolutely spend as much time with him as possible.
I suppose all I can do today is leave you with a poem (which still needs an edit or two):
It was someday in the middle of some month and I was walking home from work on the Mass Ave bridge.
The sky was the color of watered-down orange drink. Fat, purple clouds loitered over the Charles. The lampposts hunched over, asking me to stop and play hangman with them.
I realized I hadn't thought of you all day which was interesting because that past weekend was the first time I'd seen you in 5 months since you'd punched me in the face and tried to steal my best friends.
I felt as gray and bored as the concrete beneath my sneakers. The only variable which way the wind would blow my hair.
I needed change like a Diabetic needs insulin. Life just wasn't sweet enough anymore.
Still my feet carried me over Boston's aorta. And I tucked my hair behind my ear. And I pretended to be upset because you looked and smelled and felt exactly the same which was cold.
But really?
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Increasing My Ground Speed
I have purchased a bike! It is a red-brown Raleigh Sprite, with all it's original parts. Not sure what year, but it's in great condition and I've managed not to destroy it on the six rides I've made so far. Being a bike owner/rider opens up an entire new world for me. I find myself overcome with the urge to buy pants that stop mid-calf and the need for a miniaturized tool kit. Before you know it I'll have various body parts wrapped in reflective tape and dreadlocks. Viva la bicyclette!
Last night two new Couch Surfers arrived from NYC, Emily and Arielle. They brought me a gift: two slices of the most moist, flavorful, mouth-wateringly beautiful gluten-free carrot cake in the world. This cake can be purchased for a surprisingly non-exorbitant fee (surprising given its miraculousness) at Risotteria in Greenwich Village. They also serve GF risotto, pizza, panini, salad and BEER, amongst other desserts. Even the table bread sticks are GF!
The desire to cook continues to elude me. Though outside temperatures and humidity may be slighty improved my apartment continues to retain heat like ... like ... like water! (Get it? Because water has such a high specific heat? Just go in the ocean late at night, you'll feel it.) What I mean is I neither want to be inside nor do I want to be home, specifically. Though that part is unavoidable, packing must occur. I can't tell you how super excited I am for my new huge kitchen! Prepare yourself for an Autumn/Winter full of dinner parties and recipe experimenting!
I did help prepare a small, light dinner with good friends Sunday night - leafy greens with a vinaigrette, pan-roasted corn and tomato salad, oven-roasted asparagus, Caprese salad, blackberries, a cheese plate, and a glass or two of red wine. Enjoyed on the back deck with a relieving evening breeze. Parfait!
I leave you today with a poem. I wrote it for my best friend's wedding toast, as was my duty to compose and recite as Maid of Honor this past Friday. It is also the poem I will be performing at open mic tomorrow night sometime between 8-10pm, if you happen to be in the vicinity of the Cantab Lounge in Central Square, Cambridge.
Her love is Spring. The cheerful pastels of youth, the scent of warmth on each mild zephyr, the coiled energy in its name. And the determination of each new flower as it burst through the soil and proclaims "I am here!" The art of creation. The dimple in the year's cheek.
His love is Summer. The ever-present, life-giving sun, scorching in its passion and echoing with children's play. It makes and keeps the promise of hot, lazy, breakfast-filled weekends, settling into your belly with the warmth of home.
My love is Autumn. Ever-changing and unpredictable, a tumultuous jumble of color, punctuated with teasing winds. But hidden inside from this bitter exterior is a house filled with comfort foods and familiar aromas and a sense of settling down, readying yourself for what's to come next.
Our love in Winter. Still and calm. Uniform and reliable. Though piercing winds may lash at exposed skin it only drives us inward, back to the core of our being. Together, we can withstand any Nor'easter.
And your love ... your love is without season. It is the audible hum of life present on the longest and shortest of days, during drought or downpour. Your love holds the entire year in the palm of its hand. It stretches its fingers, reaches out, and nearly grasps eternity.
Last night two new Couch Surfers arrived from NYC, Emily and Arielle. They brought me a gift: two slices of the most moist, flavorful, mouth-wateringly beautiful gluten-free carrot cake in the world. This cake can be purchased for a surprisingly non-exorbitant fee (surprising given its miraculousness) at Risotteria in Greenwich Village. They also serve GF risotto, pizza, panini, salad and BEER, amongst other desserts. Even the table bread sticks are GF!
The desire to cook continues to elude me. Though outside temperatures and humidity may be slighty improved my apartment continues to retain heat like ... like ... like water! (Get it? Because water has such a high specific heat? Just go in the ocean late at night, you'll feel it.) What I mean is I neither want to be inside nor do I want to be home, specifically. Though that part is unavoidable, packing must occur. I can't tell you how super excited I am for my new huge kitchen! Prepare yourself for an Autumn/Winter full of dinner parties and recipe experimenting!
I did help prepare a small, light dinner with good friends Sunday night - leafy greens with a vinaigrette, pan-roasted corn and tomato salad, oven-roasted asparagus, Caprese salad, blackberries, a cheese plate, and a glass or two of red wine. Enjoyed on the back deck with a relieving evening breeze. Parfait!
I leave you today with a poem. I wrote it for my best friend's wedding toast, as was my duty to compose and recite as Maid of Honor this past Friday. It is also the poem I will be performing at open mic tomorrow night sometime between 8-10pm, if you happen to be in the vicinity of the Cantab Lounge in Central Square, Cambridge.
Her love is Spring. The cheerful pastels of youth, the scent of warmth on each mild zephyr, the coiled energy in its name. And the determination of each new flower as it burst through the soil and proclaims "I am here!" The art of creation. The dimple in the year's cheek.
His love is Summer. The ever-present, life-giving sun, scorching in its passion and echoing with children's play. It makes and keeps the promise of hot, lazy, breakfast-filled weekends, settling into your belly with the warmth of home.
My love is Autumn. Ever-changing and unpredictable, a tumultuous jumble of color, punctuated with teasing winds. But hidden inside from this bitter exterior is a house filled with comfort foods and familiar aromas and a sense of settling down, readying yourself for what's to come next.
Our love in Winter. Still and calm. Uniform and reliable. Though piercing winds may lash at exposed skin it only drives us inward, back to the core of our being. Together, we can withstand any Nor'easter.
And your love ... your love is without season. It is the audible hum of life present on the longest and shortest of days, during drought or downpour. Your love holds the entire year in the palm of its hand. It stretches its fingers, reaches out, and nearly grasps eternity.
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