The other day, I watched that Southern Lady on the Cooking Network make Pink Ladies. They sounded gross to me---gin, grenadine, and cream. And if you're daring, an egg white. So, Thursday being my first bartender shift in a while (I usually cocktail), I thought, what the hell. And like the MR 4 Sandwich at Tommy's in Coventry (falafel, bananas, spinach, and curry), all that nonsense came out delicious. So the Buddha lesson for the weekend---looks can be deceiving. Sometimes what appears hideous is actually sensational! Try it, I dare you!!!
Too bad, I didn't put the Pink Lady on the menu for Suzy's wedding, it would have been a pretty Florida cocktail---but I have other recipes up my sleeve. She even asked for a poem, so for those of you not able to go, here's a taste. (Sandra has been inspiring me with posting poems on her blog)
Epithalamium
for Suzy
I remember the night of your twenty-first birthday,
how you mooned me from our driveway.
Your bare ass lit in the streetlight,
you would be the first one of us to become mother,
before bride, that so often I thought it was you,
not me, who had it backwards,
or how we all tried to make sense, some kind of order,
as you, our girl in track suits
swished into a womanhood
none of us ever doled out for you,
the way we tried to predict each other
down cul-de-sacs into marriage
and pregnancies, all of us spinning
our own delicate dreams,
making promises over pitchers
in darkened bars---
we knew some things would change,
but we promised we wouldn’t change.
I think of you now as my plane lands in Dallas,
asking for this, your wedding poem from me,
for me to weave your life into symbols
and images, to collect grade school notes folded
into swans or faded snapshots of bright-eyed
freshmen, the way we painted stars on the ceiling
of a room we shared or tried to coax butterflies
into landing on our fingers at the conservatory
in Niagara Falls, the way the ocean rises to meet
the sky, or sky lays itself down, either in prayer
or slumber, rapture or necessity---
something unlocking as everything blurs
at the horizon and we cannot help our eyes,
fixed at the vanishing point,
trying to figure out this---
the ordinary magic
we call love.
for Suzy
I remember the night of your twenty-first birthday,
how you mooned me from our driveway.
Your bare ass lit in the streetlight,
you would be the first one of us to become mother,
before bride, that so often I thought it was you,
not me, who had it backwards,
or how we all tried to make sense, some kind of order,
as you, our girl in track suits
swished into a womanhood
none of us ever doled out for you,
the way we tried to predict each other
down cul-de-sacs into marriage
and pregnancies, all of us spinning
our own delicate dreams,
making promises over pitchers
in darkened bars---
we knew some things would change,
but we promised we wouldn’t change.
I think of you now as my plane lands in Dallas,
asking for this, your wedding poem from me,
for me to weave your life into symbols
and images, to collect grade school notes folded
into swans or faded snapshots of bright-eyed
freshmen, the way we painted stars on the ceiling
of a room we shared or tried to coax butterflies
into landing on our fingers at the conservatory
in Niagara Falls, the way the ocean rises to meet
the sky, or sky lays itself down, either in prayer
or slumber, rapture or necessity---
something unlocking as everything blurs
at the horizon and we cannot help our eyes,
fixed at the vanishing point,
trying to figure out this---
the ordinary magic
we call love.
1 comment:
Lovely! No Pink Ladies for me, though--I'll stick to my vice of poetry. See you Monday...
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