to be or not to be a vegetarian

To Be or not to be...a vegetarian Christmas in Portugal is a dowdy affair, Supermarkets are open most days and there is no rush, and no expectation, the hunting for happiness, family union and all that shit. We had baccallao for lunch today, and the fish was salted and dried at a mysterious place called Ålesund, where the sea is calm and deep blue and teeming with cod and the fishermen/ women wear yellow overalls, speak Norwegian but change over to English in case we should miss something very important. Tomorrow we are driving to Alentejo to eat pork elbows, yes meat from the elbow of the pig, first cooked then roasted and served potatoes and cabbage. I like the cabbage the best as it has been cooked with the elbow- there might be a more culinary word for a pig’s elbow- looks it up yourself. I’m pissed off with this poem, my intention was to write something romantic about food. Tomorrow I’m going to Alentejo to eat Pernil, which is Portuguese for pig’s elbow, (why didn’t you say so in the first place) and I will eat cabbage and reject the bloody meat from the feet of brutally slaughtered animals.

the business of cuisine

The business of Cuisine Two tins of Swedish meatballs in cream sauce. The Swedish export their soul even if it is hidden in tins. Unsalted mind stem and a heart of creamy white gravy. The new world is about buying and selling, and that is ok, Chinese dumplings bought at a pavement cafe it took days to settle my stomach So you think I know nothing I have been dining at a posh Chinese restaurant with rotating tables I said then, but not too cosy up to the host, Chinese food was leading in the fields of cousin. That was when I had the misfortune to go to Paris. excellent food but served with an arrogance that was off putting. I thought is there nowhere were people serve food without prancing trays about. Finally, I did in Alentejo (Portugal) where food is served without fanfare, because the food is natural, wholesome and good.... and if you are not driving, try their superb red wine and avoid a French philosopher whose vanity is shifty as Libyan sand.

good intention

http://oskarthefirst.podbean.com/e/good-intention/

ghosts

Ghosts. I knew of a man who believed in ghosts but he didn’t believe in resurrection, he believed in dying as an end of all activity that was conscious. But he thought that some people left their mark on things they had cherish bend the wood to his will and when stroking his fingers on the table to make it polished, he leaves behind part of his being. so when you hear a murmur, it is left behind voices; someone walking in a hall on the way to the garden, the thought of the beauty they were going to see were felt by walls, halls and old paintings. Ghosts are the residue of feelings left behind by the truly holy people amongst us those who believe in the beauty and the use of nature and a true sense of the mysterious that always is surrounding us.

Ghosts. I knew of a man who believed in ghosts, but he didn’t believe in resurrection, he believed in dying as an end of all activity that was conscious. But he thought that some people left their mark on things they had cherish bend the wood to his will and when stroking his fingers on the table to make it polished, he leaves behind part of his being. so when you hear a murmur, it is left behind voices; someone walking in a hall on the way to the garden, the thought of the beauty they were going to see were felt by walls, halls and old paintings. Ghosts are the residue of feelings left behind by the truly holy people amongst us those who believe in the beauty and the use of nature and a true sense of the mysterious that always is surrounding us.

mercy

Mercy In Australia a mother appears To have killed Her eight children with a knife And before we think of vengeance Let our mercy reign What she did when her mind was confused Is an unbearable knowledge A burden so great Forgiveness is the only thing we can Offer her now.

verse maker

Verse maker Poetry is to see Ignorance in a sentence The filling out of pleasant words The intention being Making the reader cry a little A poet sometimes is a mockingbird A mimus humming bard of Christmas songs