My Sisters, Brothers In-Laws, Evie and Me |
6:04 |
6:07 |
Kayak Morning |
A Specked Sandpiper |
Sitting In The Rain |
Around 1:00, my sister Linda and her husband Rich arrived from Euclid, Ohio for the day and night. They always bring us a couple of pounds of Slovenian sausages from Azman's Meats in Euclid. They are the best and our kids love them. We could not eat lunch outside, mostly leftovers, so we sat around the table indoors, enjoying soup, hotdogs and ham and cheese sandwiches. Once the kitchen was cleaned up, we sat on the front porch and talked about our kids and grandkids as well as reminiscing about the good old days in Euclid growing up. Finally, around 5:30, it cleared up enough to go out on the dock. We sat out there for an hour, swimming, then enjoying the brief sunshine.
Ready For Evie's Moussaka |
Because we had eggplant moussaka for dinner, I had to include The Writer's Almanac poem from July 5th. We love it.
Eggplant
by Richard Jones
by Richard Jones
I’ve never liked the taste,
which, I think,
is a shame,
because some days
when my wife goes to work
and I walk to the grocery store,
I stand in the produce aisle,
admiring those gorgeous
purple fruits––
wine colored,
sensuously curved––
and can’t help but reach out
and pick one up, just to hold it,
so silky smooth, so luscious looking
I almost fall in love,
but then remember
who I am:
a man not fond of eggplant.
Nonetheless,
I linger and look
and there in the bin
under the misters and lights,
I find it––
the perfect eggplant,
the glossy flesh unblemished,
meat firm under the fingers,
the stem and cap
bright green.
The fruit heavy in the hand,
I place the eggplant
in my cart,
taking special care,
knowing an eggplant is delicate
and wounds easily.
I carry the grocery bag home
through a light rain
and arrange the eggplant
on a white tablecloth,
the opulent purple orb
lustrous in the window light
and quietly beautiful
as if lying on satin sheets.
Then I sit in the wing chair.
The house grows dark
as the rain falls harder
and I wait for my wife
to come home from work,
shake off her raincoat,
turn on the lamp,
and behold the eggplant.
which, I think,
is a shame,
because some days
when my wife goes to work
and I walk to the grocery store,
I stand in the produce aisle,
admiring those gorgeous
purple fruits––
wine colored,
sensuously curved––
and can’t help but reach out
and pick one up, just to hold it,
so silky smooth, so luscious looking
I almost fall in love,
but then remember
who I am:
a man not fond of eggplant.
Nonetheless,
I linger and look
and there in the bin
under the misters and lights,
I find it––
the perfect eggplant,
the glossy flesh unblemished,
meat firm under the fingers,
the stem and cap
bright green.
The fruit heavy in the hand,
I place the eggplant
in my cart,
taking special care,
knowing an eggplant is delicate
and wounds easily.
I carry the grocery bag home
through a light rain
and arrange the eggplant
on a white tablecloth,
the opulent purple orb
lustrous in the window light
and quietly beautiful
as if lying on satin sheets.
Then I sit in the wing chair.
The house grows dark
as the rain falls harder
and I wait for my wife
to come home from work,
shake off her raincoat,
turn on the lamp,
and behold the eggplant.
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