Hereunder

Sowing Wild Oatmeal

Gentle visitors, it has been rumored for some time that your humble Contributor regularly takes his bowl of oats and that this partaking, above all else, accounts for his noted zest and bravado.  It is true that, on a Sunday, he might fry a rasher; however, during the week, when he needs every bit of his vim and wit, oats it is to break the fast.

Some find this odd or even outrageous, given the humble grain's reputation as humdrum and, literally, run of the mill.  But, these same grumblers would put their faith in a collection of sugar-coated flakes.  Even the otherwise sound Dr. Samuel Johnson defined oats as "a grain which in England is generally given to horses but in Scotland supports the people".  But, this was not news even then:  everyone knew not only mares eat oats but does eat oats (and, that little lambs have other dietary preferences).  Moreover, Dr. Johnson, who famously traveled among the Scots, probably never savored a fine, oatmeal laden haggis or joined in singing it's praises.

The health benefits of oatmeal have been well documented, but, then again, your humble Contributor believes that an overzealous pursuit of health can, itself, be unhealthful.  No, the true, and perhaps least known, benefit of oats is its sustenance of a life of action.

Imagine, for example, a fit and bronzed Mediterranean gentleman, just after taking his morning porridge (dotted with the finest fruits of the Italian vine rendered to raisins) on his villa's terrazzo overlooking the Amalfi Coast, descending to the beach and reclining there, shirtless and cooly shaded, in apparent repose, when, suddenly, an attendant comes, long-corded device in hand, announcing, "Signori, telefono."  Our man, retaining his composure at all times, effortlessly takes the receiver and engages in a brief conversation, ending as the unseen communicant on the other line is heard exclaiming, "Presto, Signori! Presto!"

Our man then quickly dons his shirt, tips the attendant, and bounds up the rock-carved stairway, neatly leaping into his Alfa Romeo, firing its ample (if temperamental) pistons, and pealing off toward some new adventure.

Need we say more, gentle Visitors.  All this, and regularity too, await you in a heaping, hardy serving of these steel-cut wonders.

The Shriving

Gentle visitors, from time to time, your humble Contributor receives a dark and terrible vision of what will be. We would prefer to keep this terror from you, but no prophet can rightly withhold what he foresees. What follows is a vision of a strange ritual of the sect of New Puritans, circa 2020, which has its precursors in the present day.

Deaconess: Sistren and brethren and othren, do we have a penitent who wishes to be shriven?

Kowalski: I wish it.

Deaconess:  Come forward penitent. [Kowalski advances, kneels, and hands the Deaconess a parchment.]

Deaconess: Brother Kowalski, thou hast sinned and done evil in the sight of the people.

Kowalski: I have.

Deaconess: Time and again, thou took up the fowle leaf of towbacco and set it afire with an infernal flame. And, thou breathed it in – unlike the blessed example of our Master William, who took only the curative fruit of the hemp – and then thou breathed out of thy mouth the awefull fumes upon the Elect, stinging and beclouding their eyes and befowling their lungs, such that they all perished in awefull pain and agony.

Kowalski: I confess.

Deaconess: Time and again, thou devoured murderous meat and fat, serving thy unsightly belly, and therefrom becoming unshapely and unfit and taxing the common wealth. And, in doing so, thou brought mortal assault upon the persons of our peaceful four-legged sistren and brethren of the field, such that they all perished in awefull pain and agony.

Kowalski: I confess.

Deaconess: Time and again, thou brought the devil’s draught to thy lips, swilling the sirup of gluttonie and fowle carbon, and therefrom becoming unshapely and unfit and taxing the common wealth.

Kowalski: I confess.

Deaconess: Time and again, thou sat by idlie whilst thy sistren and brethren and othren Elect labored in great and wholesom exertion, toiling upon the machinerie of goodly health, and by thy sloth became unshapely and unfit and taxed the common wealth.

Kowalski: I confess.

Deaconess: Time and again, thou set out upon thy smouldering carriage, burning the bastard childe of carbon in infernal flames and spewing his reek upon Holy Mother Earth, choking her blessed frame and bringing her awefull pain and agony and well nigh her perishment.

Kowalski: I confess.

Deaconess: Vile sinner, thou hast been obdurate in thy sins as well as in thy awefull paleness and stubborn fixedness of gender, violating the great Law of Diverseness.

Kowalski: I confess.

Deaconess: Sinner, thou art Impure!

Congregation: Impure!

Kowalski: I am impure.

Deaconess: Dost thou ask to be shriven and made over?

Kowalski: I do.

Priestess Hillary: Sinner, be glad that thou hast, at last, found thy voice and confessed thy sins. Thou art shriven. Let him be flailed and reassigned and made over in the image of the Goddess. [congregation applauds]

Deaconess: Step forward Penitent No 1 and receive thy penance with joy. Do we have another penitent who wishes to be shriven? ...

Poor Relations: St. Valentine's Day

Girl, sure it's been ages since we've talked.

Ah, it has -- donkey's years.  And, how's things?

Oh, grand, grand. And yourself?

Grand.  And, did ye know that today's St. Valentines Day?

Well, sure, every day's a feast for some saint or another.

'Tis, but ya know, St. Valentine's day's special, like, the patron saint of love, an' all.

Love is it?  Sure, I had it marked down for Saints Cyril & Methodius, an' all.

Well, sure, them too, but it first belonged to St. Valentine, long 'go. 

Did it?  Well, I'll put him down as well -- but, ya know, I don't tink Cyril or Methodius 're young snappers.  It's not like dey just showed up last week.

No, not at tall.  Sure, dey've been 'round for millenia an' all.  But, I wonder, did Himself bring ye some roses or sweets, like, for Valentines?

Himself?  Sweets an' roses?  Divil a one, girl.  St. Valentine preserve us, but I'd 've been in a feirce state a shock if he had.  Sure, I'd be lucky to get a "top o' mornin' to ye" from the likes of him -- he saves that blarney for tourists when they come 'round.  Then, he'll sing a bit a "When Irish Eyes are Smiling" -- that sort a ting.  Sure, the Yanks love it.

Ah, they do, they do.

But, Himself,... saints, he's a great lump of a man.  Why, it's 5 bells this mornin' and your man's still snorin' in the scratcher, an' isn't Brigid bellowin' in the barn to be milked?  Sure, I gave him a good kick and said, "Get up now and do your duty.  Poor Brigid's gettin' ready to burst." 

Now, I taught you sold the cows when you did the IPO?

Ah, we did, we did.  But, we kept Brigid for a bit a cream for the tea. 

Good tinkin'.  Well, the day's not over girl.  Maybe he'll rise to the occasion. 

Ah, sure, that'd be a gift ... an' miracles never cease.

And, sure, he's still a fine figure of a man.

He is, at that.

A Word on Words

Gentle visitors, it occurred to us recently that we had not offered one of our noted "A Word On...." commentaries in nearly two years -- a shameful omission when you consider the many patient visitors who had waited, day in and day out, full of anticipation, for the next such post -- like little children awaiting St. Nick or a Sufi awaiting Illumination, enduring the daily disappointment, which, in time, descended to disillusionment and even disconsolation, at failing to see that Word of Wisdom dripping from these pages as golden drops of honey. 

We cannot describe the guilt and shame we feel at this negligence.  And, yet, there it is:  staring at us like an enraged rooster of Italian derivation.

Then, as we hurried to correct this remissness, we noted that, in composing "A Words On Words", we could not possibly convey such a word without using words.  Oh, the horror and  conundrum of it!  Like the hand drawing the hand, we were suddenly caught in a world of topsy-turvy solipsism -- or, more precisely, in world of raging circularity.   "Words, words, words ...." like the song of Italian derivation says.

But, therein lies the trouble -- the derivation that is.  Those of our visitors who are less etymologically challenged know that the word "word" derives from the Latin (hence Italian) word "verbum".  But, imagine a world with all verbs and no nouns -- a raging torrent without ceasing -- all action without subject or object.  That is, like much of our contemporary entertainment.

Ah, those Italians are seductive -- we'll grant you that -- but what a monstrous conspiracy of words, words, words!

Parole, parole, parole....

A summer poem

Goodbye to Kauai

Greens turn to grey as we soar softly away on the cobalt expanse
Beyond the grey is green
In the green the folds
In those folds I hid in for a while
From your verdant tresses the native boy conferred upon my love the ginger flower
Now fragrantly perishing in the stateroom

Steep mountain shores stand in their not quite eternal attention
They saw Cook leave
They saw the Duke leave and now I must go
Have they returned?
Are they among your mangrove fingers in the Wailua ?

May the rains cool your tongue Kauai!
Sweat laughter in excess to the cliffs!
Let it drown your pigs and roosters

So much beauty has been drained from you but you offer more for any passer by

I will never see you again Kauai

Poultry Geist

Another XAT.

It happened so fast -- the awful screech, the flash of black, the fluttering of feathers. Then, Diane turned to see her beloved Marsala mortally wounded and lying on the ground. She rushed to his side.

"Il pollo," he whispered, gasping for air. "Il pollo diavolo."

***

Dr. Picata greeted Diane as she entered his office. "Miss Marbella, do come in and sit down." She sat slowly, clutching a handkerchief, and he took his chair, opening a large file.

"Miss Marbella, I have reviewed the entire matter. What happened is indeed rare, but there are similar cases, especially one reported by a M. Tetrazini in 1855. You see, the Acona breed can be very aggressive when threatened.  Some rural Italian folk, especially among the Parmesans, even have legends of those ‘possessed by evil spirits’."

Diane dabbed her eyes.

"But," said Picata, lighting his pipe, "I understand they make a very good cacciatore."

Fat Chance

Gentle visitors, in recent posts, we have encouraged you, again and again, to give fat a chance.  Now, on the veritable feast day of fat, we make our final appeal for largeness of heart.

Consider what one would choose against fat -- for the opposite of fat is thin.  The very word conjures images of gauntness, or of a gruel and the most cold and scant of same. 

Worse still is another opposite of fat: lean. 

"Lean" suggests a slight inclination -- a kind of waffling uncertainty or insecurity, a faintness, a lack of conviction and passion -- as against "stout", which denotes solidity and steadfastness, inured to fatigue or hardships, firmness of purpose, as well as a strong very dark heavy-bodied ale made from pale malt and roasted unmalted barley and (often) caramel malt with hops. 

One no more longs for the "lean years" than one finds a man "lean and happy."  Otherwise, we would never have the fortune of sharing in a largess; rather, we would be picking through the meager scraps of a smalless.

Friends, we are about to embark on the season of Lent.  During this period, your humble Contributor is noted for his ascetic practices -- a fact of which he is duly proud.  On any given Lenten day, he may be seen consuming a few thimbles of lukewarm tap water, a stale crust of bread, and, perhaps, the odd parsnip.  But, note, that he will be foregoing fat for a noble reason, not out of some frail fear of fat.

Therefore, gentle visitors, subject to the discipline of Lenten observance, a few words of admonishment.  Don't fear; don't worry; be happy.

Whistlepig In Winter

I am the lonely Whistlepig.
In Fall, a gen'rous hole I dig,
Then crawl inside and hunker down,
While snow and ice fall all around.

I drowse away the topside freeze
'Til winter's grip begins to ease,
Then rouse myself to creep upstairs,
To see about the world's affairs.

I am the sole appointed judge
Of when the frosty stuff will budge:
Six weeks to go, if there be sun;
But, much less so, if there be none.

And, having made my tunnelled run,
Why, then, my lonely job is done.