Pause and Cheese Straws

     An anticipated pause in the blog while I journey south is marked tonight with a small gathering of friends on a snow covered night; it's good to mark time this way, in a journey, a meal, a momentary farewell.  To put some little order where there's hardly any but a departure date.  Packing gets a little harder each time--stands to reason that with me what ought to become science unravels lyrically into an artful lore of what may come.  Mightn't I need those ramekins?  And what if I need this bottle of Raz el Hanout?  How about fifty pairs of underwear?  Sure, bring it all, just toss it in a box.  Or four.
     I developed an affinity for things southern when I got to know Catherine Simms this past Spring and my vain dreams of débutante balls, cheese straws, and gentlemen (that's what they're supposed to be down there, right?) are all about to come true.  Well, the cheese straws, at least.  I first heard about them when reading Catherine's southern chick lit:
     "Cheese straws are, quite simply, a classic Southern snack. Equally at home with a glass of sweet tea on the porch as they are being served at a cocktail party, cheese straws are an unpretentious but delicious choice. And while cheese straws are fairly simple in concept, the ingredient list is basically just cheese, flour, butter, salt and cayenne pepper, it is in the execution that things become tricky.  A proper cheese straw is light and dense and should have a good snap to it. It should not be too gummy or crumbly, nor should it be crispy like a potato chip. The two keys here are proper density of the dough, the proper texture/shape." 
     Somehow, I imagine any blogging from my temporary home may just be an I want to go to there.  And so, if you'd like to go to there with me, virtually, please check out http://wewanttogotothere.blogspot.com/  and keep your fingers crossed that I don't return with a drawl or fifteen pounds.  

Pelmanism

A shell, snowglobed in a Florida plastic box and a pocket knife: JP.

Ledgers in your cursive distant familiar,

a ring, a missing stone, lapis lazuli from your well worked fingertips.

This purple silk dress, I wore it as a child and imagined it was your perfume.  

Prologue to this love affair in a legacy of loss,

a history of disappointed treasures

that trace a line through the cracked palm of an old woman's hand.

Are those my eyes?  Is that your hair?

Everything about it is a kiss, 

offspring's breathless consummations.

She taught me how to write, she was hardly there at all.

He raged and he judged, ancient knowing all along the coast.

Glass and mirror and your dear voice giving everything

to hold these objects, warm and fluid.

Accept a whisper of aggression to 

do it all over again. 

Weekly Wisdom from Mr. Trollope

In the Post Office it was my principle always to obey authority in everything instantly, but never to allow my mouth to be closed as to the expression of my opinion.