Now, nearly done (Ha!) and I have …

cabbage soup simmering at The Office and must get back to add more stuff to The Pot set simply inside an 18-quart Norelco porta-oven. The whole-wheat-n-rye sourdough makings got their first “turnings” from the fridge this early morning and by touch they are ready but by nose then could use another day of twice-turning further to develop flavor…the carraway seeds intrigue.  I ended up using much more bread flour than I had planned just because I dumped in almost a quart of last time’s sourdough starter and said what-n-hole, why not…so it looks like when I do bake, one loaf will be made inside glass as sammich slicer stuff and another one (or two) will become either a nice big boule or perhaps two smaller round loaves, both ensconced in pyrex round casseroles.

This was supposed to be an apology of sorts for not spending more time playing in others’ fields – but I found out (Again!) I lied.  I did not sit on my pens nor did I post the paper elsewhere but I had a hard spate of scribbles Saturday and later this Monday morning while awaiting the library’s opening welcome.  I forgive me.

My garden chores keep clamoring their way over the brief walls I erected last week and now shake still-unempty bags of seeds and worse starter plants and even more heinous cuttings crying for englobment in wormpoop and pearlite.  And I am three beers behind! I did manage a snowpea massacre Friday and suspect the revenants will need decimatory practices again this evening.  they are so much crunch in a simple salad…which reminds: the green and red oak leaf lettuces have two in need of beheading…and I shall snip the children of such along with previously topped survivors before the real Spring starts to draw aphids aplenty, though I will require some to bolt for seeding purposes.

Enow!  I go.  Peace and Joy to you all.


She once was name-nicked “Puppy,” became a human doctor and thus became “PuppyDoc” and Phoebe Chi graces us between stethescopic chills with such lovely poetry.

Phoebe, MD: Medicine & Poetry

Curtains raised
upon this stage
lifted shadows
one new day.
Encores played
familiar piece
kindred players
different key.
Life’s gavotte
a gleeful tune
every third beat
ends all too soon.

So what is left
now but to live
moments to take
and those to give.
To learn to love
and risk to lose
each turn a jewel
the heart will prove.
So let us grow
as rhythms flow
this one new day
for us to know.

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“The Tail(s) of Rat(t), King”

The Tail of Rat(t), King

runs ‘cross many genera

and two continents.*


*(Coming – whether soon is open for debate) – to a reading screen near you further tales of Harold “Harry” Ratt Krohn and The Rat King of An Hoa Combat Base is in its first form done but terrible and untrue to both protagonists.  Harry Ratt deserves no less. the Rat King, more! So disparate but alike!  So flawed yet heroic.  So full of fun but dangerous.  And, finally, so much good beer wasted!)