This kitty is a Bengal, part domestic cat and part Asian Leopard Cat

Blue Blue Eyes and Silky Fur- This is a Ragdoll

Photo by Tom, edited by Sue

same bench after the last big storm

It's been a long long winter

bench in my backyard after the first winter storm 2011

Worcester Sunset

Amazing how much beauty exists in your own back yard.

Used to eat this every time I'd travel to Cincinnatti to visit my mother-in-law. She gave me this recipe. Try it, it's wonderful.

Cincinnati Chili
1 pkg ground beef
2 medium or 1 large onion
1 clove garlic finely chopped
1 tablespoon vinegar
1 tablespoon A1 Sauce
1 15 ounce can tomato sauce
2 cans water
1 dry red pepper
2-3 tablespoons chili powder
½ teaspoon cinnamon
½ teaspoon allspice
1 teaspoon ground red pepper
3 medium bay leaves

Cook slowly for at least 3 hours to desired thickness
pour this over a pound of cooked spaghetti and then top with chopped raw onions, shredded cheese, and oyster crackers.

The Ripeness of Fruit

The Ripeness of Fruit

Now he is old and
only supervises dinner preparation,
but with the same authority that once
ordered burly men who work the big machinery
The grinding, roaring drone replaced
by the hum of the garbage disposal
and the hiss of simmering pots
After dinner we sit out on a balcony
that seems to float over a stretch of white sand,
and stare off across the water
at the winking lights from a far off ship
He points out turtle tracks in the sand,
where the turtles have come ashore to lay their eggs
“We keep the lights off after dark this time of year,” he explains
“Turtles find their way back to the sea by moonlight”
He recites this bit of information like one of the locals but,
He still wears white starched shirts, black pants and his shoes shine
Before I leave he tells me that he is lucky
to enjoy these “fruits of all his labor”
and quietly adds as an afterthought,
“I have had a full life.”

India Lentils

My sister Nancy can’t pass more than 3 people without engaging one of them in conversation. Sometimes it’s sorta like an interrogation. She’s a very curious person. Really pays off sometimes, though. She met a lady on the bus on her way to work in New Orleans years ago who was from India and somehow they got to talking about food and she gave my sister this recipe for lentils and brown rice. Said it was great for losing weight. One cup of lentils over one cup of rice is a meal. I tried it and it’s really good. I used to take it for lunch instead of a sandwich. Try it.

ps. you have to eat only a serving at a time to really lose weight.

India Lentils
1 Tablespoon Olive oil
1 16 oz pack lentils
1 onion (chopped)
2 or 3 garlic cloves
½ bell pepper
2 bay leaves
1 inch cutting of ginger, grated
1 tsp salt
1 tsp cumin
¾ cup ketchup
1 tsp brown sugar

Saute onion, garlic, bell pepper.
Add all ingredients and 1 ½ to 2 qts of water.
Cook until soft.
Serve over brown rice.

Cha Cha

My Brother George, alias Cha Cha, back in the 60's.

Cha Cha

George as my number one salesman helping me to sell my ragdolls to all his customers in New York.

Just a few old memories revisited

Forever

The doctor came by and spoke the words
To her that his eyes already told me two
weeks before

With great delicacy
she picked those words apart
choosing to keep
only the most palatable

Sitting in the corner of her room
I watched her as she bent
her head over the hospital tray
feet dangling over the edge of the bed

She labored over her checkbook
Making sure her accounts were in order
Soft white hair, newly regrown, curled
at the nape of her neck

She worked so intently
I remembered as I watched her swollen fingers

How cool they felt once, as a child,
on my feverish skin
I wanted to keep this image of her forever
But I don’t know anymore, what forever is

Visitation

Sometimes when the summer sun warms a late afternoon
I can still see her standing at the sidewalks edge
With her skirt billowing around her legs and
Strands of pretty straw-colored hair blowing across her face
“Remember,” she tells him, ”You said I could see them,
Whenever I want—you said”
He ushers us into the back seat,
And slips into the front,
Twists the key and revs the engine a few times
Finally he nods in her direction, then eases the shiny black Olds
Slowly away from the curb as we clutch our canvas bags
Full of crumpled clothes
And hold on to whenever I want.

A Day at the Cat Show

An very elderly man wearing a black suit and carrying a cane came to the table where all the cat toys, stuffed mice and feathers on sticks were displayed. He looked at our handmade banner in back of us proclaiming us an organization that rescues cats. “I got my cat from a shelter a few years ago,” he said. “He’s black with a little bit of white on his chin. Every time I go upstairs he follows me, follows me all day because he has to know what I’m doing. He sits on the arm of my chair when I watch television and he does a little dance when I open his can of tuna.” He took 2 quarters out of a handful of change that he pulled out of his pocket and carefully placed them on the table to purchase a catnip mouse, that he put back in the same pocket the change came from. Then he just said, “I like him,” and he abruptly walked away.

A little later a another man walked in back of our table to get a closer look at the 6 cats we brought with us, as our little good will ambassadors, two grey and white tigers, an orange tabby, a calico and a pair of older “coon” kittens. “I wish I could have another one,” he said almost to himself. Then he turned toward me and said, “My landlord said no pets, but he owed me a big favor. So when a little stray kitten showed up at the door I asked him to make an exception. Well, he didn’t really show up at the door. I found him crying loudly in the bushes in front of the building. It was very tiny-- should have been with its mother, really. My landlord said, “’you’ve been a great tenant. Just make sure you get it spayed.’” “My wife wasn’t sure at first. She never had a cat and thought they just lived outside and came to eat and then left you alone. But the kitten, it took right to her. It would cry outside the door when my wife took a shower. Then she’d put the towel around her neck and open the door and pick up the kitten. It would snuggle on her shoulder and knead the towel. Got so it knows the sound of her car from mine pulling into the driveway and runs after her everywhere she goes. She used to sleep late in the morning and just hated getting up. Now she gets up an hour early every morning to have special time with the cat. Oh, it likes me well enough, but it is just crazy for her. I really would like another one, though.”
visit the shelter where I used to volunteer--- http://www.catsontheweb.org/

My Father's Kitchen

My father’s kitchen was immaculate, but it never smelled like pine or disinfectant. It had this heavenly smell of fresh onion, hints of garlic and pungent Italian cheeses. A counter ran along one wall, broken up in the center by a white porcelain sink with a window just above it. On the window ledge were several small pots of parsley and basil seedlings. At one end of the counter there was always a basket of Spanish onions and a bowl of jumbo garlic with white papery skin. The counter surface had a dull gleam from countless washing but nowhere could a chip or scratch from a careless knife or utensil be found. Meats and vegetables were diced with precision on a wooden cutting board kept in one of the 6 yellow metal cabinets below the counter. The interior of each cabinet above the counter was lined with plastic coated paper.
There was nothing in the cabinets that you wouldn’t find in any kitchen-- pots, pans, cups, glasses, bowls, plates, jars of spice, condiments and food staples. What was remarkable was the meticulous placement of each item--neatly stacked rows all lined up on an invisible grid. Previously opened jars and containers gleamed like new. The handles on the inverted coffee cups all pointed in the same direction like a series of clocks all pointing to ten past two. The drawers in lower cabinets were filled with perfectly folded dish-towels and the silverware nested in even piles.

Every Saturday a huge pot would simmer on the largest burner of the gas stove. The tomato sauce inside would send up huge bubbles that would burst on the surface and release an aroma that could only be described as divine. As the scent would permeate the entire house, stomachs would growl and mouths would salivate. No matter--no dipping into that sauce ‘till Sunday dinner at 1”oclock. This was my father’s kitchen and things here were done his way, the way they should be done--the right way--the only way. But he was not a harsh or stern man. He was a man sure of himself and his universe and this made his kitchen a place of comfort rather than intimidating; a safe and orderly place.
I loved to watch my father prepare food. I would sit beside him on a stool and lean forward with my elbows resting on the counter. He would tell me stories about his family and his childhood. The stories were interspersed with cooking instructions that he would give over and over again each time I watched him, as if I had never heard them before. He must have told me to clean up as I go along a million times. And always add a few drops of water to the can of tomato paste to get the last little drop. The stories formed an ongoing narrative; bits and pieces loosely linked together, about his parents, the hills of Benevento, Italy, and the section of the Bronx in New York City known as “Little Italy.” As a child I hung on every word and rarely thought of the hardship and tragedy in the life of an immigrant orphaned at six years of age and stricken with polio at nine.
The immigration photograph above, probably taken at Ellis Island, showed my dad, the last figure on the right, at the age of four. His mother has his little brother George on her lap. George died shortly after this photo was taken. His brother Sam and his sister Nancy are also in the photo. Dad’s father and two older sisters, Rafaela and Mary, had already immigrated into the country to pave the way for the entire family.

Mending

Mending

It came to breaking down her things,
Into small parcels, into the hands of the ones she had loved.
And I went away clutching the small straw sewing basket,
To be stashed away, in a secret place,
And retrieved again on quiet nights,
Or in those early morning hours when she is close,
To trace my fingers over the odd assortment of
Smooth round buttons, crinkled foil packets of darning needles,
And tangles of colored threads,
All woven together in a curious tapestry
embraced now, as my own

Autumn

Autumn

The leaves were turning then
The last she’d ever see
My heart was full of pain
she was as beautiful to me
as the leaves before they fell
their colors only deepened
by the early autumn rain

My Mother The Dancer

My Mother the Dancer

My mother the dancer
cut my tights when I was
in the third grade
to make herself stockings

Sat on the floor of the
living room with me
and made paper dolls
while mold grew on
old pots of spaghetti

Cut my hair so badly
the teacher asked
if she put a bowl
over my head

Sang songs to me
about a rubber dolly
and the hokey pokey
and drew pictures
of girls with long eyelashes

Let me help
wind the yarn into balls
crocheted slippers and sweaters
that shrunk up in the washer

My mother the dancer
dressed up fine on Friday nights
and went out with Irma
and the girls
while my father paced the floor

This is Little Vic, who came to be known later as Captain Crisci. He was my big brother, and frequently he was my hero. I miss him.