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Front Matter Pages i-xxi. Hands to the Grindstone. Pages Fettered Lives. Job Creation. The New Religion of Work. Secrets of the Dumb Steeple. The Silent Monitor. Helming the kitchen at Abe Fisher, Chef Yehuda Sichel executes a menu that pulls together centuries-old flavors that range from Budapest to Montreal to Brooklyn, creating a meal and an atmosphere that both modernizes and elevates the long-familiar classics of Jewish soul food. With practically the whole globe to draw inspiration from, the dining menu at Abe Fisher is eclectic and exciting.
A full bar stars craft cocktails, interesting wines by the glass and craft brews on tap, as well as in the bottle. A deep list of amaro, scotch, whiskey, brandy and rum will make perfect pairings for a dessert of apple strudel or sour-cherry soup, completing a meal any Bubbe would be proud of. Who can say? Some things are pleasing mysteries. Like light in the darkness on All Saints Day. Monday, October 31, All Hallows Eve.
My daughter's pumpkin If you want to see the rest of the family pumpkins, you'll have to go here. There's the traditional and the poop-emoji pumpkin and one spewing seeds. Saturday, October 29, Autumn skies. Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,. With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;. To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells.
For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells. Indian Summer has left us, scattering yellow and red calling cards in its wake. We've had four snows already, though only one stuck around for a while. I've worn boots and winter coat already and need to lay in a new supply of wood for the fireplaces. Last night, after coming home from a Fellini-worthy ceremonial evening at St. George's in Schenectady, I found a pot of chocolate waiting on the stove.
I'm not ready for the great brunt, though it is on its way, the relentless wheel gathering icicles and turning. I wrote it after reading some Robert Walser poems. I didn't like them as much as I wanted to like them, but perhaps it is that pesky trouble of translation.
Carving pumpkins, herding cats and progeny, writing some tight small poems in a pause mid-novel: I've been empty of blog posts somehow, so please take this little homage to and appreciation of Paul as an apology. More anon. Videos by UK-born Paul Digby, composer, videographer, singer, fine cabinet-maker, painter, knitwear designer, computer genius, and more.
There is nothing this man cannot do! Or so I suspect.
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He writes lovely music, but evidently that's not enough for him--he has to put the rest of us to shame in innumerable categories of creation with his apparent belief that he is a human being and so can do things! He lives in an obscure corner of Ohio. I can't imagine what they can do to deserve him.
Friday, October 14, Touchstones and the Nobel kerfuffle. Muse reading a scroll by an open chest. Attic red-figure lekythos, ca. From Boeotia.
Public domain, Wikipedia. Bob Dylan.
Turning and turning in the widening gyre. The falcon cannot hear the falconer;.
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;. Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,. The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere. The ceremony of innocence is drowned;. The best lack all conviction, while the worst. Almost in fright she beat it out with her fingers. Then she murmured and lay back more firmly upon the pages.
There she stretched, growing warmer and warmer, sleepier and sleepier. She began to won- der out loud how it would be if Clyde shot her in s6 A Curtain of Green the leg. If he were truly angry, might he shoot her through the heart? At once she was imagining herself dying. She would have a nightgown to lie in, and a bullet in her heart. Anyone could tell, to see her lying there with that deep expression about her mouth, how strange and terrible that would be. Under- neath a brand-new nightgown her heart would be hurting with every beat, many times more than her toughened skin when Clyde slapped at her.
Ruby began to cry softly, the way she would be crying from the extremity of pain; tears would run down in a little stream over the quilt.
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Clyde would be standing there above her, as he once looked, with his wild black hair hanging to his shoulders. He used to be very handsome and strong! She lay silently for a moment, composing her face into a look which would be beautiful, desir- able, and dead.
Clyde would have to buy her a dress to bury her in. He would have to dig a deep hole behind the house, under the cedar, a grave. He would have to nail her up a pine coffin and lay her in- A Piece of News 27 side. Then he would have to carry her to the grave, lay her down and cover her up. All the time he would be wild, shouting, and all dis- tracted, to think he could never touch her one more time. She moved slightly, and her eyes turned toward the window. The white rain splashed down. She could hardly breathe, for thinking that this was the way it was to fall on her grave, where Clyde would come and stand, looking down in the tears of some repentance.
A whole tree of lightning stood in the sky. She kept looking out the window, sufiFused with the warmth from the fire and with the pity and beauty and power of her death. The thunder rolled. Then Clyde was standing there, with dark streams flowing over the floor where he had walked. He poked at Ruby with the butt of his gun, as if she were asleep.
She jumped up and darted away from him.
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Then, quicker than lightning, she put away the paper. The room was dark, except for the fire- light. From the long shadow of his steamy presence she spoke to him glibly and lighted the lamp. He stood there with a stunned, yet rather good- humored look of delay and patience in his face, and kept on standing there. He stamped his 28 A Curtain of Green mud-red boots, and his enormous hands seemed weighted with the rain that fell from him and dripped down the barrel of the gun. Presently he sat down with dignity in the chair at the table, making a little tumult of his rightful wetness and hunger.
Small streams began to flo'sv from him everywhere. Ruby was going through the preparations for the meal gently. She stood almost on tiptoe in her bare, warm feet. Once as she knelt at the safe, getting out the biscuits, she saw Clyde looking at her and she smiled and bent her head tenderly. There was some way she began to move her arms that was mysteriously sweet and yet abrupt and tentative, a delicate and vulnerable manner, as though her breasts gave her pain.
She made many unnecessary trips back and forth across the floor, circling Clyde where he sat in his steamy silence, a knife and fork in his fists.