And I'd Die for the Truth, in My Secret Life

Oh, Leonard Cohen, it is my opinion that you are one of the best poets of our time.

Happy Friday the 13th

Fruits Have Feelings Too

Hey guess why the peach is missing from this poster? Because the peach has innerpeach ;) Cheesy, I know. Er - I mean fruity?

P.s. - I love that the starfruit thinks she is a freak, meanwhile she is actually the most interesting and sweetest of all!

Ode to Summer

Another lovely film by Andrew + Carissa brought to us by Kinfolk. I don't know about you but it makes me want to spend a week in a deserted old farm town, go for a bike ride, eat yogurt and avocado sandwiches, go cliff jumping into a lake and read Lewis Carroll on a front porch swing while sipping earthy herbal, earl grey tea.

A BOAT beneath a sunny sky,
Lingering onward dreamily
In an evening of July --
Children three that nestle near,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Pleased a simple tale to hear --
Long has paled that sunny sky:
Echoes fade and memories die:
Autumn frosts have slain July.
Still she haunts me, phantomwise,
Alice moving under skies,
Never seen by waking eyes.
Children yet, the tale to hear,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Lovingly shall nestle near.
In a Wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die:
Ever drifting down the stream --
Lingering in the golden gleam --
Life, what is it but a dream?

- Lewis Carroll

Jicama-Blueberry-Feta-Thyme Salad

I first tried this insanely good fruity-cheesy-vinegary salad a couple of weeks ago when my mom's friend brought it over for lunch. After trying it and then melting on the floor into a pool of ohmygodthatwassogood, I mopped myself back up and decided silently in my head that it was the best thing I'd ever eaten. When I asked her how she made it, she (like a true food artiste) told me she just kind of "threw" it together. She said she didn't know what herb was in it exactly because when she was making it she handed her friend a pair of scissors and told her to "cut something green" from her herb garden. After careful consideration and some time ;) I've deduced that the mystery herb that awakens this salad is probably thyme.

Feel free to change up the amounts in the recipe – I sort of just eyeballed it and went by what tastes I liked best!

½ of a jicama (peeled and cut into cubes) *

1 pint blueberries *

¼ cup Feta cheese

1 tbsp fresh thyme

1 tbsp balsamic vinegar (preferably white)

3 tbsp olive oil

Salt & pepper

*you can also use 1-2 peeled cucumbers instead

*you can also use blackberries, but blueberries work best

The Art of Disappearing

The Art of Disappearing by Naomi Shihab

When they say Don’t I know you?

say no.

When they invite you to the party

remember what parties are like

before answering.

Someone telling you in a loud voice

they once wrote a poem.

Greasy sausage balls on a paper plate.

Then reply.

If they say We should get together

say why?

It’s not that you don’t love them anymore.

You’re trying to remember something

too important to forget.

Trees. The monastery bell at twilight.

Tell them you have a new project.

It will never be finished.

When someone recognizes you in a grocery store

nod briefly and become a cabbage.

When someone you haven’t seen in ten years

appears at the door,

don’t start singing him all your new songs.

You will never catch up.

Walk around feeling like a leaf.

Know you could tumble any second.

Then decide what to do with your time.

From Words Under the Words: Selected Poems. © The Eighth Mountain Press

A friend of mine from yoga read that poem to me a few days ago and it made me laugh out loud, tear up and get goosebumps all at once. When I googled the poem, I found this little write-up of it and I enjoy it perhaps even as much as I like the poem itself.

Why do I feel the need to defend this poem? Because I do. Feel the need. To defend this poem. I want to apologise behind its back for its anti-social tendencies, its unabashed unfriendliness and the rich texture of its rudeness. Not the kind of poem you could lean over and strike up a casual conversation with – without getting your head snapped off for your pains. That sort of poem. The kind that urges you to the verge of a resentful rejection of civilizations neatly composed niceties (That it makes you want to laugh out loud is beside the point– and bad manners besides– like encouraging a child who has just blurted out in the middle of polite company- something importantly true and deeply inappropriate) That said- let me say also, that Bill Moyers carried this poem folded into his wallet after living past heart surgery. Now one doesn’t carry a poem around folded into one’s wallet after living past heart surgery on account of its richly textured rudeness- does one? No. When you hear past the poem’s prickly barricade what you hear rings out with the clear purity of that monastery bell at twilight that it makes mention of. A clarion call back to What Really Matters — couched in crusty curmudgeonliness and not a little sarcasm. If this poem has a sting– then trust it. The way you trust the brief burn of antiseptic on a wound. Because life, lived attentively, can be so much more than a littleness traveling between trivialities. Read the last lines and in spite of yourself feel this world and this moment turn incredibly precious beneath your fingertips. - Pavi

A Wedding Weekend

Boys will be boys ("free agent" update mid-reception dinner)

A view of the stables of the Sweetwater Farm

Obligatory blogger mirror shot. Sh-boom.

Homestar Runner & Marzipan cake toppers

(and five different flavors of cake!)

Dinner in Grace Winery (renovated barn)

Cedar rafters