Chocolate Cake (चो)
2 cups unbleached white flour
1 tsp. salt
1 tsp. baking soda
2 tsp. baking powder
3/4 cup unsweetened chocolate cocoa
2 cups sugar
1 cup oil
1 cup hot coffee
1 cup milk
2 eggs
1 tsp. vanilla
Sift together dry ingredients. Add oil, coffee, and milk. Mix 2 minutes on medium with mixer. Add eggs and vanilla. Beat 2 more minutes.
Pour into greased and floured pan. Bake at 325 degrees for 30 minutes or until toothpick comes out clean. Cool 15 minutes before removing from pan.
White Frosting
1 cup milk
5 Tbsp. flour
1/2 cup butter, softened
1/2 cup shortning
1 cup sugar
1 tsp. vanilla.
Combine milk and flour in saucepan. Cook until thick. Cover and cool in refrigerator.. In mixing bowl, mix butter, shortening, vanilla, sugar until creamy. Add chilled mixture. Beat for 10 minutes. Frost cooled cake.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Thursday, May 8, 2008
The Dancer Waking
The dancer in me
was happy this morning
pulling on my costume—
the one that flashes and sparkles
the morning’s newest light on the surface
of Silver Lake or possibly the Sugar River,
flowing over pebbles made smooth,
tumbling past rocks and stones
stacked by ice and rushing snow melt,
cast off by the accumulation of thunderstorm
electric with summer, mellowed on golden days
in October and copper November.
My heart is most pleased in this body
when I honor movement
of skirts swirling around my ankles,
old settlers in bonnets
tending to the earth on the prairie,
cutting each step with the swish of fabric
chosen not just for the utility of the cloth,
but for the delicate flowers
and comfort each brush against strong legs might bring—
in work and in celebration
of promenades holding the head high
and circling, smiling with partners
who look adoringly
into the face.
Jaguar, Mother of the West,
queen of all that protects me,
let me know love beyond birth and death,
sink your teeth into the throat of these enemies
of fear and doubt.
Let me see clearly and smell the earth as she wakes
under the pads of my lover’s feet.
Let us embrace and move as if one body—
fibers of light connecting sinew and bone
and the flesh, warm with that white rose of pure understanding—
awake every holy junction in our core
with your sweet mother breath.
Wrap a shawl around my shoulders
and I will bow my head in this fresh May morning
and I will be grateful for your abundant loving kindness
in every blessed step forward
The dancer in me
was happy this morning
pulling on my costume—
the one that flashes and sparkles
the morning’s newest light on the surface
of Silver Lake or possibly the Sugar River,
flowing over pebbles made smooth,
tumbling past rocks and stones
stacked by ice and rushing snow melt,
cast off by the accumulation of thunderstorm
electric with summer, mellowed on golden days
in October and copper November.
My heart is most pleased in this body
when I honor movement
of skirts swirling around my ankles,
old settlers in bonnets
tending to the earth on the prairie,
cutting each step with the swish of fabric
chosen not just for the utility of the cloth,
but for the delicate flowers
and comfort each brush against strong legs might bring—
in work and in celebration
of promenades holding the head high
and circling, smiling with partners
who look adoringly
into the face.
Jaguar, Mother of the West,
queen of all that protects me,
let me know love beyond birth and death,
sink your teeth into the throat of these enemies
of fear and doubt.
Let me see clearly and smell the earth as she wakes
under the pads of my lover’s feet.
Let us embrace and move as if one body—
fibers of light connecting sinew and bone
and the flesh, warm with that white rose of pure understanding—
awake every holy junction in our core
with your sweet mother breath.
Wrap a shawl around my shoulders
and I will bow my head in this fresh May morning
and I will be grateful for your abundant loving kindness
in every blessed step forward
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Bone Poem
Stammer over the little things,
like the towel on the bathroom floor
or the seat up, the rim covered with dried drops
of urine and fine hairs
and you will be trapped--
like listening to the same question asked
three times by the betrayal
of eyebrows raised
in disbelief and doubt--
Your teeth clench, vice-like, and you,
you will know something about yourself.
Your life is a premonition making history
before the end of the final battle,
the shot over the bow,
a legacy of losses
you never intended to leave out to dry
in the too hot sun.
This is the bone poem—
the white, flaking femur
and fine finger bones unearthed
by a clever and hungry dog.
There is no rebirth here,
Only naked truth
where forgiveness is a far off fire,
a Pentecost of the spirit
waiting for another day
to come clean.
At 43, I’ve seen my share of death up close.
In my womb and at my breast—
even my children have been taken
from the power of my Mother arms,
unable to hold them,
to love them into long life.
I have cast off my own death
by looking her straight in the face
and managed not to look away,
unashamed of what I witnessed,
unafraid of that bloody place,
that red, pulsing ball
of light.
I am a woman who sees things with my bones—
from the place in my marrow
where real life grows—
bleeds onto this white page
and the bones of my wisdom
hold up words that don’t stutter
or struggle to find their breath—
This is the place where they hold firm,
the foundation of everything
that really matters.
Stammer over the little things,
like the towel on the bathroom floor
or the seat up, the rim covered with dried drops
of urine and fine hairs
and you will be trapped--
like listening to the same question asked
three times by the betrayal
of eyebrows raised
in disbelief and doubt--
Your teeth clench, vice-like, and you,
you will know something about yourself.
Your life is a premonition making history
before the end of the final battle,
the shot over the bow,
a legacy of losses
you never intended to leave out to dry
in the too hot sun.
This is the bone poem—
the white, flaking femur
and fine finger bones unearthed
by a clever and hungry dog.
There is no rebirth here,
Only naked truth
where forgiveness is a far off fire,
a Pentecost of the spirit
waiting for another day
to come clean.
At 43, I’ve seen my share of death up close.
In my womb and at my breast—
even my children have been taken
from the power of my Mother arms,
unable to hold them,
to love them into long life.
I have cast off my own death
by looking her straight in the face
and managed not to look away,
unashamed of what I witnessed,
unafraid of that bloody place,
that red, pulsing ball
of light.
I am a woman who sees things with my bones—
from the place in my marrow
where real life grows—
bleeds onto this white page
and the bones of my wisdom
hold up words that don’t stutter
or struggle to find their breath—
This is the place where they hold firm,
the foundation of everything
that really matters.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Tempting Destruction
What will it take to finally move me
out of this place of worst fear,
drowning in my own precious Piscean waters,
flailing about for the shores of an uninhabited island
where I can hear myself think,
make a plan,
scan the horizon for a sail
or a white messenger bird
carrying hope to the hands of a stranger?
The tides carry me now exhausted, out to sea
to the edges of twilight
while I wait to regain my strength
and to let my pain escape one drop at a time
crystallizing, not unlike the Desert Rose,
with this waiting
into some solid thing I can roll
between my fingers and examine
like lace or folds in the memories of a miniature mind
where one can find the exact place
where happiness once lived along with sorrow
and they wrapped themselves together,
lovingly smoothing the edges—
the liquid source of comfort not forgotten.
A tiny mirror
on the pocked face of this self-made stone
catches the eye,
invites me to look inside for my truth.
I resist the urge to break the core open too soon.
Patience and attention,
like that of a hopeful farmer in his spring fields,
gives me the sense to wait for rain
and adjust the flood gates
not until at last I can see nothing else
will hold the power within
without tempting
destruction.
What will it take to finally move me
out of this place of worst fear,
drowning in my own precious Piscean waters,
flailing about for the shores of an uninhabited island
where I can hear myself think,
make a plan,
scan the horizon for a sail
or a white messenger bird
carrying hope to the hands of a stranger?
The tides carry me now exhausted, out to sea
to the edges of twilight
while I wait to regain my strength
and to let my pain escape one drop at a time
crystallizing, not unlike the Desert Rose,
with this waiting
into some solid thing I can roll
between my fingers and examine
like lace or folds in the memories of a miniature mind
where one can find the exact place
where happiness once lived along with sorrow
and they wrapped themselves together,
lovingly smoothing the edges—
the liquid source of comfort not forgotten.
A tiny mirror
on the pocked face of this self-made stone
catches the eye,
invites me to look inside for my truth.
I resist the urge to break the core open too soon.
Patience and attention,
like that of a hopeful farmer in his spring fields,
gives me the sense to wait for rain
and adjust the flood gates
not until at last I can see nothing else
will hold the power within
without tempting
destruction.
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