Someone asked for my black bean soup recipe. This is a first for me.
Smith’s random black bean soup
3 segments of garlic
1 very large onion or 3 smaller ones
3 carrots
4 stalks celery
chop the above, add to large pan with 1/3 cup olive oil
and saute
add tablespoon ground cumin, black pepper, some smoked salt
add large can diced tomatoes. 3 cans of black beans with juice
3 caps sherry, 1/3 cup miso, 1/2 cup black beluga lentils,
1 container vegetable broth, msg if desired
bring to low boil
lower flame and simmer for 1 hour
take 1/4 of it and put thru a blender
add back in
add chopped green onions, chopped cilantro, chopped parsley,
and some frozen corn
bring to low boil, lower flame to simmer
and slow cook for an hour
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I have a foto on new Crisis Chronicles Press book cover.
https://ccpress.blogspot.com/2018/08/howey099.html
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And here’s my July feature on Medusa’s Kitchen thanks to publisher/editor Kathy Kieth… this is my 33rd consecutive month: http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2018/07/wolf-parts-poems-and-visuals-by-smith.html
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We all blind ourselves.
“Where you come from is gone.
Where you thought you were going to weren’t never there.
And where you are ain’t no good unless you can get away from it.”
You want strange? Comedy? Absurd? The Church of Christ Without Christ?
Then you need “Wise Blood,” from 1979, the movie John Huston made from Flannery O’Connor’s first novel (1952). With Brad Dourif and Harry Dean Stanton.
I saw the movie at the Cedar Lee when it came out 39 years ago and was wondering if it could possibly be as good as I remembered. Finally found it again (on Filmstruck). It is. 5 stars out of 4.
~
Another Filmstruck film – His Kind of Woman, 1951, Robert Mitchum, Jane Russell, Vincent Price, directed by Richard Fleischer (although uncredited, he redid the film after John Farrow’s failure) – a film noir of piranhas in a pool fighting over whom to eat – I used to see these as entertainment, but today realized they’re education, prophesy, life as it’s actually lived — we’re all meat, just looking for a mouth.
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Wine More Than Women
Dead poets sing tall towers
of empty icing,
of love without helping,
love without caring,
love without sacrifice,
love without being there,
of loving land more than people,
people more than person,
strangers more than family,
of women who wait without complaint
while men fight wars,
drink wine,
cry.
This is not poetry,
this is not love.
This is masturbation,
this is licking one’s self in the mirror.
Love is changing diapers,
love is getting up before dawn and going to work,
love is not eating the last piece of pie,
love is looking, watching, sharing,
caring.
Love is not thumping chest,
love is not beating brow,
love is not patriarchy,
love is not lies.
Their poet love is empty love,
self love,
love of sound and whistle
minus meaning.
Love is dirty,
love is work.
Love is worth it
when you’re worthy.
As is poetry.
