7 words per thought about a day

Let me tell you about my day

Like no other it started with rotation

Tire rotation amidst probing fingers slippery sliding

Over grease drippings caressing a new crack

Worsening ball joints aging like my own

And a promise of more to come.

Nine hundred and thirty seven bucks

Later, much later, I embrace

The mounting cost, abreast

A non sexy

Kind of

Day

R.I.P.

Frozen in time, she realized it was probably too late to rest in peace, for there were still dreams to be conquered, dance steps to learn, kisses to give.....used up habits to dump. No, rest in peace meant living a fulfilling life in some little way every day....while breathing deeply was still possible. I want to die while on my own dirt road, not in the passing lane of others. She 'Romanced Inner Passions' is what I want my goodbyes to whisper.

Walks With Harley

6/11/09

With my subconscious in control behind the wheel of my car, I miraculously arrive at the forest…. and I’m glad. Glad this is a habit now. Harley is in his glory catching up on the world of doggyness, galloping and prancing, always in the general direction of me. He’s good that way. It relieves me of having to be consciously in his moment, freeing me to relax into mine.

I find myself walking this morning on the path I’ve grown to adore. I look forward to it. I block all else out and focus on the new life I am creating and what I need to do next. Fear crosses the path and suggests it’s too difficult. Oh shut up, I respond, pushing it out of the way with the glorious sight of morning light on the lagoon. Part of the water was shimmering, signifying renewal and birth happening just under the top of the water. So close, I thought. So close to being born. Doubts and fears once more demanded attention. I pray for help.

Oprah appeared. Yes, Oprah. And she said:

You, Lynda, are the idea person. I, Oprah, am the one who can make it happen. I can make anything happen.

If you give me ideas that are born from your heart and soul I will act and it will be yours. Do not worry, fret or buy more books about doing it. You know your craft & path as well as you know your heart. As well as you need to.

You think birthing is scary. In Truth it is great fun.

You think birthing is painful. It is only so if you don’t do it.

WOW. Oprah is God !!

I think... This world is a dream world, manifested by thoughts that swirl in new energy forms and create the illusions of our day. Most urgent to know: our thoughts create. Change my thought and I can create anything new that I pointedly think about with gut passion. Back to Oprah.

OMG. My God is wrapped in the veil of Oprah! I trust that image and I invited her to reside in my solar plexus, the direct line to my awareness. She wanted to sit on the top of my head, like any God image would. We compromised on the space between my eyes, the beloved third eye. I tell her: I want to parent. I want to give birth. I’ve nurtured my ideas and watched them grow. They want out. They now want a life of their own. I often thought, as a young woman, if I got pregnant my greatest fear was how the hell was the baby going to get out. Seems I was still worried about that.

As I descended the walking path, leaving the magic of flow and intention that the forest embodied, I heard Oprah saying everything she said the first time a second time to make sure I got it. I accepted her offer and agreed to keep her very busy. She was undaunted, so damn self-assured that she could do anything. Feeling supported in partnership with the universe I picked up Harley’s poop and lightly bounced out of the forest.

Lynda

An Open Letter to Alice Miller

Dear Alice:

I found you by chance

or maybe not

a click away as I perused all things parenting

It is my passion

All thoughts expand back to be enveloped by it

as if it's the good earth and fertilizer all in one

the pool of hope and possibility

the prayer for a happy beginning, a fulfilled ending

We, you and I, Alice, share a knowledge

and although I was not looking for validation, I found it

Are we the only ones who know this?  Who care?

How precious is a life.

How definitive is a child's earliest emotional experiences to the remainder of his life.

How awesome, as in comprehensive, is every parent's responsibility.

How often are children clinically or educationally 'treated' for the negative effects

of their parenting.

How often are parents released from learning by 'they did their best'.

I write not to blame but to inspire,

to encourage change in thought and action;

to gently but persistently dispute a subtle, enduring, damaging belief system.

And to acknowledge a role in life that offers a healing

for those who are blessed to call themselves parents.

More emotionally healthy people walking around

More authenticity to find and share

to access

for us all.

Alice, do you hear me?

Your friend in all things childhood,

LyndaKMT

aka MaidaBellpepper.com (under construction!)

p.s.  Maida Bellpepper is my safe, secure, beloved childhood; the enduring foundation upon which all crazy challenges of my life find resolution; without which I would not be my authentic, happy self.

Although not without minor neuroses, I am eternally grateful to my parents and huge extended family for their consistent love, respect and care that I never questioned.  They were passing along how their parents parented them.  I just got lucky.

Etude in G

Garbled genius ghostlike beneath too much gin

A gourmet mind now a mere garnish

The grandeur gone from our conversation

The potential embers a fading glow

The goodwill between us gliding, sliding down his throat into gut drowning suppressed feelings by yet another glass of booze.

Glancing at the clock I am panicked by the passing time. Our moments together governed by his rank and file and the goodwill of the war machine.

He's scared. He's different. I glide my fingers into the small tuck behind his left ear.... our secret spot.... as my lips gloss over the nape of his neck. A gust of knowing acts as go-between to our hearts, and there is a gentle connection still.

Damn the grenades and other ghastly goods of war. I will find this man again and nurture the garden of true love we once shared.

Ode to Woodstock

Forty years ago the Goddess of Getting Along merged with the Godfather of Hard Rock and Music Greats.
And, doused by mostly harmless drugs, put 500,000 hippie-types into a stupor of love and gut appreciation for the beat, the voices, the guitar solos bending minds into happy mush, the embracing of flow in everyday events like finding food, a bathroom, a familiar muddy blanket.
I remember the beginning and the end; but I know it's the middle that made me different. I totally abandoned the former rules of my life in the name of survival and found freedom, trust and humanity. I took off my bra and never wore another. I felt safe as we were all on the same mission, as it turned out to be, of random kindness and peace. You may think it naive, but it worked. I paid eighteen dollars for that ticket that never got collected. The fence was a joke against the masses of people wanting in. Damn, I wish I had that ticket. I still have the feeling, though, and when I connect with that there is nothing I cannot do. Package me in compassion and timeless agape love viewed from a bigger picture, a more perfect distance, and I am invincible in my efforts to adapt and make a difference in every new time of my life because, I did have the time of my life. Peace. Lynda.

A MINDFULNESS POEM ...June 26, 2009

I am a tender walk, honestly alone with the trees
becoming a bluish shimmer off the lagoon light over yonder,
now shifting thoughts.
I am the listener, awaiting a glint of truth in conversation
a talk of trust
becoming a layer beneath
each time, each talk.
I am musical tones, penetrating the touch of nature.
I am a container for renewal, exhilarated by the freedom of change
swooping, gliding through a blank consciousness
certain of connection.
I am heavy yet light.
I am becoming my dog, in the moment
creating space between
to rest
to respond
to bark my dream.
I am the music of a hug
Oh goody-goody
doo wap sha-boom!
I am my Mother’s hands
my Father’s last loving gaze.
I am surrounded by dirt
and will return
but not yet.
And when I do I will become Michael Jackson
knowing my passion lived
through the gauntlets of life.
I say to angry thoughts “Don’t bother me now… I’ve my joy to do!”
I am my silk blankie
sensuous, smoothness
all over.
Everything is okay.
I am happy to be alive.

Lynda KM Treger

What a Day...

This is a day of a phone call
fueling fresh hope
This is a day of remembrances stifled
to give chance a chance
This day there is a hint of forgiveness.

This is a day of dark eyebrows
laughter driving through the rain
This is a day of mist filling half the air around me
This is a day of good company.

Puppets are calling
Play is the rest of this day.

OFF-WHITE DOOR...YELLOW ROOM

You asked about the yellow room. Well, I've been back since then. Couldn't stay away. The air in there is an evolving mystery unfolding before.....not just my eyes, but my spirit. I MUST be there. I must BE there. So many questions I never dreamed of. But I'll tell you how this all began.

I was engaged in a guided imagery and dropped off in front of a long hallway with doors on either side. Well into my imagination and free from inner controls I walked up to a plain, off-white door. The paint color was flat and smoothe, not a nick. The door surface was plain with no embellishment, except for a multifaceted clear-glass door knob. I liked the simplicity of the whole door. It had a classy (glassy?) touch. The knob warmed as I turned it and gave a push.

A comfortable space, I guessed 20x20, with canary yellow walls and ceiling. The only objects in the room were four red Louis XIV chairs, wide and well-padded. They were, it appeared, carefully placed, one in each corner so that the back of the chairs formed the base of a triangle with the plane of the yellow walls. The chairs were all facing the same point in the room....the center. At a glance the room presented itself as ordered and serene, and yet I sensed a vibrant undercurrent. It felt pregnant with, with something......a label escaped me.

I walked to the chair in the NW corner and sat down. As I did this the chair turned yellow as the walls, and the scent of patcholi floated past my nose. Yummy. Love magic. Love patchouli. I sat all the way back in the seat and my arms rested naturally at my side. I felt supported and strangely 'pointed in the right direction'.

Looking straight ahead I noted the other chairs. The line of our gazes met in the center, like an important X. I focused on this spot and a shimmer began to reveal itself. It grew upward into a cylinder of light. I blinked. It disappeared. I focused intently and it grew once more, this time almost touching the ceiling. There seemed to be movement and colors within the cylinder. And then I saw planets, oceans, green farmlands, castles, cavemen, space stations,......Louis XIV !? I tighten my focus and scenes flitted by with great speed until I concentrated on a specific area....a tiny spot of happening. The action slowed and I found myself witness to scenes, interactions, snipits of human activity, some from my past (!), others unknown to me. With jaw dropped and careful not to drool on the fancy chair, I witnessed moments from my childhood: Mom peeling potatoes at the sink, Dad and I driving Aunt Tilly home from work and picking up freshly baked bagels along the way, little me riding my bike on the gravel driveway. I panicked and the activity sped up, becoming a blur. I relaxed and it slowed down.

So this is how this room works. I seem to be pointed in the direction of the past. What if I sat in the other chairs? If I want to intently observe, all is visible. With dramatic awakening, this room's treasure becomes crystal clear, as clear as it's door knob. It's a hologram of life!

I felt my body rest heavy into the chair. I was trying too hard to know more. "No need to try. Just be. Come back whenever," the pillar of light sang out in mutiple pitches. I left, perfectly content.

And that, my friend, was my first visit to the Yellow Room behind the off-white door. I returned earlier today, excited to turn that crystal door knob. I chose a different chair, wanting a fresh perspective on this room. Or is it on Life? In any event I went through the door and sat myself down in SW chair. I relaxed, thought of nothing and looked to the center of the room. There was a rush of air. The hologram was speedily forming. As it rose and filled out, new thoughts came out of my mind, effortlessly. They took the form of questions. "Ask away," sang Big H. I call it that because it was filling the room, it's circumferance almost touching my knees. I thought Big H looked pregnant with possibilities. "That's right". Oooooo. The wonder of the unknown.

I asked without regard to answers. What if I stood in the center of the room? Would I be engulfed by the hologram?! What would become of me? How would that feel? Would I survive? What if I did a headstand in the center of creation? Would I see things in a different way I never imagined before.

"THAT'S THE IDEA!"

What if a friend joined me in this room and sat in another chair? Could we communicate? Could we co-create? What would happen to us? What if I twirled in the center of the hologram, in the center of creation? Would I survive? I want to know: Would I die?
"A part of you dies when a new part is born. It's the glory of Creation. It's a path of Evolution. It's the joy of Living. You are in the chair of dreams never dreamed....a perspective of possibility and grace."

This is one heavy room. My thoughts blanked out as I experienced a current enter my body and rest in my solar plexus. I savored the moment. I'll be back, I gurgled in my best Schwarzzenegger voice. Whirls of laughter filled the space called the yellow room.

Agelessness and Art Books

I love art books.....you know, those big picture books in art museum bookestores full of narratives, vignettes and philosophies of great artists with pictures of their thoughts realized as paintings, photographs, drawings. A favorite is Claude Bonnard for his in-depth look at color and his expertise at creating a vibrant wonder on canvas. I lingered at my personal bookshelf, tight with many favorites, and pulled out Bonnard at Le Cannet . I leafed through, reading and absorbing, when this quote repeated itself in my mind:
"His thirst for nature was insatiable, his work in capturing life tireless."

'Capturing life'. Hmmm. Another buzz-word to add to my growing understanding of agelessness. This great painter was empassioned with his way of living fully, and it involved giving color to life as he saw it. He loved this space called life and dared to reach for his potential in expressing himself, reaching it time and time again.

Now there's something scarey about potential realized. What comes next?? When that too-good-to-be-true dream is realized then what lays beyond? Is there a beyond? Is it time to then die?! At least that's what's gone through my mind. The fear of living a fully realized life can paralyze efforts in reaching it. So what's so frightening about reaching a dream, a potential?
I've begun considering that perhaps only levels of potential are reached. Perhaps there are many more levels of passion-expressed to grow with, to choose from.....only, that menu is not as yet available...I must first open the book to get to live the table of contents.

There. That makes me feel better. I won't perish if I reach what I think is my potential. How do I know what that is anyway? Just do my passion. Listen to what makes my heart flutter. Feel what makes my solar plexus ache with a sweet joy. Capture life in my way. I'll know I'm alive.

Ah, yes, this art book is the perfect gift for a budding artist on her 'sweet sixteen' birthday. I wrapped it in layered yellow and hot pink tissue paper and tied a large, flowing red and black bow in one corner. She'll love it.
And so she did.

(written 21December2006)

BEING SNOW

My mind was engulfed by the size of the bounty, the enormity of the situation.

At midnight I settled down to silently wait. The seven dwarfs tiptoed in, wearing dumpy dwarf hats, and each carrying a handful of smashed plastic bottles they had collected from the alley. They recycled. My sidekicks were gesturing wildly as I listened to their body language to surmise how ‘things’ had progressed. Grumpy actually had a relaxed look on his face, but complained in silent animation, nevertheless, to keep his name in good standing.

It was hard to keep still with their energy electrifying the small space of my home. Oh no friends, there was no arguing, just anxious anticipation of my fate.

By morning I had simmered seven pots of tea. We were on pot number eight when Detective Iknew I.Could tapped on the door and slid a note underneath on which he had scrawled: I found your Prince Charming. Eat the apple. All’s well.

POTENTIAL

I always thought that if i reached my potential i would die. Enter self-sabotage.
Now i nudge myself to change my orientation in time and space to see that there is not one path, not one goal, not one potential.
There is one step, then another, another, a goal realized, then ooops.....that leads to another goal, another potential reached.
Levels of potential.
Potential of the day!
My highest step to take is to die happy, content, and satisfied with my time amongst the living.
It is not one huge 'got it!'
but one level of potential after another
to feel very good about experiencing
to feel encouraged to take the next step to unfolding
Conscious living is an unfolding of what can be offered to the world in the name of wisdom
bottom-line truths
Always and forever...everywhere.

So i tell self-sabotage to take a day off
Stay if you want but kindly get out of my way
for a day
then another
another
Move it busta'...i wanna live life.

I cannot know for certain all of my potentials
can't plan them
know all outcomes
But i can strive to grow
knowing that
The daily process of being aware is a potential reached in itself
with the almighty reward of change.

Finding Timbuktoo - part one

FINDING TIMBUKOO
Part one

I had been but a thread's width from death, and in healing had to remain steadfastly in the present. The ego took a back seat to Being. How do I know? Because my first rendezvous with the Pacific Ocean brought a moment of Grace.

As I stepped onto the sand my feet were bathed in warm submersion and gentle rubbing. It had been four months without breathing in the salt air and hearing the sound of continuous power.....the waves rolling in, the negative ions washing away emotion. My head lifted towards the west and my eyes more than saw. They experienced the timeless, true ocean. A turquoise so brilliant, I gasped. I could not move. I dared not move, because intuitively I knew that I was floating on a different energy than those around me. I stayed still in wonder, aware only of the intense blue. Forever blue. True blue. Deep, vibrant blue. My Being was physically binging.

Then someone asked me a question. I responded and thus shifted onto the common energy field. The turquoise faded to an ocean color I had seen many times before. The magic was done. The moment stored away into gratefulness.

How fragile is Grace.
How beautiful to be Alive.

Rosie's Kugel

Rosie's Kugel: a Soul-Tested Recipe

Generously butter a 9x13 pan...have it ready to receive
Empty your oven of all pans and large serving dishes (optional, but a definite in my kitchen)
Preheat the oven to 400 degrees, hot and ready
Boil wide egg noodles (12 or 16 ounces) in plenty of salted water until al dente
Drain the eggs noodles, cool a bit and slide back into the pot
Empty in a can of crushed pineapples, juice included
Scoop out & into a pint each of sour cream and cottage cheese,
Full fat, pa-leeeze
Measure in sugar to taste, usually less than 1/4 cup
Drop in 4 eggs, freshly cracked
Douse with cinnamon while singing an aria
Now, and this is the secret, gently combine all ingredients
while thinking of the loved ones who will be enjoying it

Pour into the ready-to-go buttered pan
Wiggle it a little to settle the mixture into place, filling all corners
Cha-cha to the oven and place it in the middle
For one hour.

This treat is best pipping hot, topped with a dollop of sour cream and those strawberries I forgot to tell you to thaw. Get the frozen ones for the juice.

Kugel was a breakfast treat in our home, but certainly works well as dessert.
Mom liked to start the day off sweetly.

Ranting Rights

Ranting Rights, written on a pink-violet lightbeam....

I don't trust you, she said
I don't trust you alone with my children
Hmmmm, that always worries me
when she says weird things like that
Naive me wonders 'What?! Why?!'
for a while
and then I'm reminded of the truth
A truth that apparently hasn't been adjusted
massaged toward a healthiness
gently dismantled.
She's already done what she fears
I might do.
But I wouldn't
And she would.
She did.
She passed a legacy of hurt onto her child
telling him ugly details
from her point of view
her side of the story
making me the bad guy
planting anger in him.

Earlier as we were yelling about the past
I asked
What do you tell him
when he asks why he doesn't see family anymore?
No response.
I asked again.
Nothing, she blankly (and guiltily) replied
Now if I were to call her a liar she would get all pissed off
but apparently she is
She passed her anger on.
Hell of a gift.
Is that your legacy?! screams my heart
Hearts.
Your heart of gold is poisoned by righteousness
You tyrant!
You martyr!
You're full of fear and you say that's the way you are
That's your excuse.

What a pitiful display
of desperate power
fueled by anger.
You're afraid of being hurt
so you hurt first.
You haven't a clue how to heal.

There's a space in your being
for courage to confront
that is empty
awaiting some speck of consciousness
some awareness
a self-honesty.
It's okay to learn.

Thank you for the multitude of opportunities you give me
to rise above
to expand my heart
to re-frame ugly feelings into healing messages, at least to me
to practice, practice, practice loving someone who doesn't self-examine
to detach so that I may have access to a child I adore....is that where your power lies?
Your lovable soul is buried under such excrement.
I'm here to practice in front of you
I pray you notice
a different way of being
with healing results.

If you weren't my sister
who I used to love
you'd be burnt toast.
Tossed.

There. That feels better.

Leon Russell Review

LEON RUSSELL CONCERT
SPECIAL REVIEW
FEBRUARY 2, 2008

I knew I would find the time to wear these funky, far-out Doc Matrens. Lacing up my zebra boots, donning patchouli in honor of hippier days, I beat it down the highway, trippin' on a local rock n' roll station warming up for Tightrope, A Song For You, Lady Blue, Delta Lady, This Masquerade and more.

Third row center....my friend and I were poised to be entertained and to voyeur the mysterious flow of passion of a legendary, talented performer. Enter Leon, eye-catching and dapper as ever with cascading white hair and beard resting on a white suit. Hat in place, shades on, he was here. After the first song I determined that Leon might as well have been a cardboard cutout. Okay, he's aged. Haven't we all. A quick scope of the rows behind me proved that. Gray everywhere. I needed a little expression of passion, but maybe that wasn't Leon's style. Gratefully, the other musicians were animated.

The drummer, oldster that he was, was expertly flailing away, the fire of youth still flowing. He kept an ambitious beat.

Lead guitar guy's long and lean fingers deftly pinpointed quick melodies and expansions of musical thought. Dark, worn jeans stuck to his long skinny legs, almost revealing the music pumping through his veins.

The bass guitar, now he was fun to watch. Every part of his body writhed in beautiful visual concert when he laid his hands on his guitar. I fell hard for his passion.

The keyboard (besides Leon's) was adored by a justifiably self-appreciating, long-hair who, I think, was blind. He never looked at the keyboard....but he did look inward. His facial expressions told a story of pure pleasure at what he was able to do, and his closed-lip, broad smile seemed to revel in acknowledgment. His fingers moved freely like a bird flitting, lifting and landing easily, the mechanics well-ingrained. This guy knew his instrument. He felt it. And he let us know that.

Oh, haven't I mentioned the sound yet??

I was so engrossed in the visual performance because I was aurally overwhelmed. It was too loud to hear. My discrimination picked through the murky, messy collage to find Leon. I could only locate him with ears held tightly shut. And then I felt like Randy on American Idol: "Dude, you're really pitchy, man." Happily, there were sweet moments in his soulful ballads when my searching heart was thrown a life-raft and I connected with the sound I remembered.

Then something like a prayer was answered. Leon moved. He lifted his dark glasses and looked at us. Sensitive and bright, his eyes lit up a kind face.....and beat a path to my heart. I like seeing the man behind the music. I need the human connection for a little meaning.

With the connection to The Man made, I was as content as I could be considering I was having to survive the highest decibel level from each instrument on stage. Sound check anyone? Sooooooooound cheeeeeeeeck!!!! I took a quick glance at my friend to see how she was faring. Pre-concert, her smile filled her face, rosy with the expectancy of a musical treat. Now she looked bland with facial features being drawn, almost disappearing into a silent scream of "Get me outta here!" I turned to check out the rest of the audience behind us. Gray heads were numbly bobbing.

The noise ended.....my friend was first up and first out while me and my zebra boots followed, albeit wobbly from the quiet after-shock. It was a night to remember.

Grateful acknowledgment to Jackie Wessel (bass guitar/vocals), Chris Simmons (guitarist/vocals), Brian Lee (keyboards/vocal), and Grant Whitman (drums) who, in a better-suited venue for a musical concert, would most assuredly have been the treat of a lifetime. Nothing takes away from the talent and heart of the creative genius of Leon Russell. Love your songs, Leon. You are a friend of mine.

THE ARGUMENT

sometime in January, 2008...there was this ARGUMENT:

It's black.
It's gray.
It's white.
It's gray.
It's black 'n white!
It's a shade of gray!
Black!
Light gray!
White, I say!
Deep, dark gray, perhaps?
No, it's black!
How about bluish-gray with a hint of purple.
White!!
(now she's really getting pissed)...Muted, soft gray like Mom's fur coat.
Black!!
Okay, almost black, a very dark gray like dense clouds in a Buffalo winter sky.
No! Black!
But there are so many shades of gray.
White!
Oh silly me, I know...yes, white touched by copper, a yummy warm tone.
Just white!!
Don'tcha think goblin-gray has a ring to it?!
Black!!
Great greasy gobs of goober gray.
White, white, white!
I wonder what medium gray smells like?
Oh shut up, it's black or white! (grumble...mumble, walking away)

Get the picture?
Impossible to work with or move towards.......
To move away from an unbending mind held firm by fear
is the only direction.
But wait...I'm the winner.
How revealing and fun that I got to be with colors
and reminisce, imagine, invent
gray hay way
It's gray or the highway, sista!
stay, hey, may, bay
May-bay bay-bay you'll see gray
some-day.


Lessons from THE ARGUMENT:
* It's good to detach.
* Stay true to yourself.
* Release limits.
* Find the humor.
* Welcome challenges to rise above.
* Search tirelessly for the grays between the lines....Therein lies all possibility.

THE POINT OF PENCILS

This is my desk pencil
ever handy, ever ready
regularly sharpened to tally and rally up numbers
always next to another on my desk

This is my on-the-go pencil
often twisted on it's side
to get instant thoughts on a napkin
tucked in my purse
making marks on my wallet

This is my fancy schmancy pencil
lead encased in a hefty shell shaft
weighted
forever pointed with a slight turn of the fingers
i like it's fine line

This is my let's write for hours pencil
that pals along with a battery operated sharpener
that affords me freedom to roam
pressing onto paper
thoughts of an obsessive thinker
it's very talented. it can write about many things.
It roams over the page sometimes in a little doodle fit
other times gliding into the next thought
It loves to go off the line, or just above it
ignoring the straight and predictable path that somebody made for it
no, this is not the only way
It loves to feel the invention of a new word under it's lead, just for the fun of it.
It's anti-eraser, preferring to adore every stroke, even cross-outs
It sings a smooth song like well-filed nails on a satin blanket...and I do love that.
It's just like this black one and those red ones and that gray one, all huddled together
ready to play, invent, protest, pretend.
This is my rebel pencil, and write it must.

Recipe monologue: ColeSlaw

cut up a fresh cabbage....organic if you can
flop it into a big bowl
grate a large carrot (peeling on for goodness sake) and...that's right, flop that on top of the cabbage
only to mix them together with your hands
roll then squeeze a fresh lemon or two onto mixture (paleeeze no seeds)
salt liberally until it's almost too salty
then pour liquid joy, a.k.a extra virgin (what's that anyway?) olive oil over everything
until it's all very shiny and almost too wet
sing any opera tune you can while tossing this all together with extra large tossing utensils
drop in a handful of dried cranberries for that magic hit of red (optional)
the secret:....lots of everything...and the singing
this is delish with poached salmon and mashed potatoes...or just the mashed potatoes.
yummy.

A Vegetable Spat

Coleslawly speaking
I arugalarly tell you
that I carrot do this now.

If it's not one potato
it's two potato
that's gotten in our way.

I don't know where you've bean hanging.
Oh, stop vining and pepper up
before I squash your little seeds
up the side of your raw cabbage head.

Leaf you alone?!?!

Go get souffled!

(extensions to this spat-prose encouraged)