—Poetry by Linda Klein, Playa Vista, CA
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
BLUE FLAME RITUAL
Something mystical shown in the blue flames at each station of our cooking lab. A heavenly halo encircled the room. Light licked the gray walls to glowing. Blue incandescence reflected in our metal Bunsen burners and fire shields, casting dancing phantoms across the massive ceiling. I was drawn to watch the show.
It was an ancient ritual with each of us standing in wait behind a burner, covered by a cotton apron to protect our clothing from splashes and spills of hot blue lava-like sauce. We listened to Mrs. Sherman's instructions, measuring a cup of blueberries, adding them to a saucepan half-filled with water. Next, the sugar, to be poured slowly.
Placing the pans over the burners diminished the streams of blue flame, spreading the fires under the bubbling pans. An experience unlike cooking at home on our mothers' stoves.
"Lower your fires," our shaman Mrs. Sherman reminded. The great room grew grayer, smaller. "Now stir sugar and berries slowly until they are blended." A sweet, tart, pleasant smell wafted from the cooking blueberries. I couldn't wait to taste, and wondered what dessert they would enhance.
There was a knock at the door. Justin, one of our teacher/shaman's aides, entered with a large flat box. It contained a massive, plain sheet cake from Pearlstein's bakery, baked with no adornment and meant to receive our bubbling blueberry sauce.
We each received a generous slice of cake, which we anointed with our blueberry concoction, and partook in a ceremonial feast, accompanied by a glass of milk. Our senses transported us aloft.
Something mystical shown in the blue flames at each station of our cooking lab. A heavenly halo encircled the room. Light licked the gray walls to glowing. Blue incandescence reflected in our metal Bunsen burners and fire shields, casting dancing phantoms across the massive ceiling. I was drawn to watch the show.
It was an ancient ritual with each of us standing in wait behind a burner, covered by a cotton apron to protect our clothing from splashes and spills of hot blue lava-like sauce. We listened to Mrs. Sherman's instructions, measuring a cup of blueberries, adding them to a saucepan half-filled with water. Next, the sugar, to be poured slowly.
Placing the pans over the burners diminished the streams of blue flame, spreading the fires under the bubbling pans. An experience unlike cooking at home on our mothers' stoves.
"Lower your fires," our shaman Mrs. Sherman reminded. The great room grew grayer, smaller. "Now stir sugar and berries slowly until they are blended." A sweet, tart, pleasant smell wafted from the cooking blueberries. I couldn't wait to taste, and wondered what dessert they would enhance.
There was a knock at the door. Justin, one of our teacher/shaman's aides, entered with a large flat box. It contained a massive, plain sheet cake from Pearlstein's bakery, baked with no adornment and meant to receive our bubbling blueberry sauce.
We each received a generous slice of cake, which we anointed with our blueberry concoction, and partook in a ceremonial feast, accompanied by a glass of milk. Our senses transported us aloft.
MORSELS OF WISDOM
Advice my parents gave me,
I was reluctant to digest.
I'd chew it up and spit it out.
It left a bad taste in my mouth.
I thought that I knew all I needed to.
Their cautionary words were
just a jest, to heed or not to heed,
bonbons to be sampled now and then
at my discretion, for wasn't I nearly ten,
with faculties firmly in my possession.
Independent, mature, wise,
and ready to get cooking.
I'd make mistakes and stew in them,
sop up the sauce and wear it, looking
sassy and brand new again.
If I need help, I'll ask.
No need to hover over me.
I'm up to any task.
But I began to cover up,
ashamed to let them see.
Now they are gone and I miss
the flavor of the morsels of wisdom
they tried to share, the bits of
tenderness that meant they cared.
Advice my parents gave me,
I was reluctant to digest.
I'd chew it up and spit it out.
It left a bad taste in my mouth.
I thought that I knew all I needed to.
Their cautionary words were
just a jest, to heed or not to heed,
bonbons to be sampled now and then
at my discretion, for wasn't I nearly ten,
with faculties firmly in my possession.
Independent, mature, wise,
and ready to get cooking.
I'd make mistakes and stew in them,
sop up the sauce and wear it, looking
sassy and brand new again.
If I need help, I'll ask.
No need to hover over me.
I'm up to any task.
But I began to cover up,
ashamed to let them see.
Now they are gone and I miss
the flavor of the morsels of wisdom
they tried to share, the bits of
tenderness that meant they cared.
IN AN APPLE GROVE
More than a hundred years ago, in an apple grove, on a farm close to Warszawa, a young Jewish family lived in a modest house. The papa was named Mordechai and the mama, Leah. Raisel, fifteen, and Bracha, thirteen, the daughters, were their eldest children. The whole family worked the farm, owned by a Polish farmer, in exchange for living in the small log house, and eating farm-grown food.
The farmer, Mr. Wyzniewski, a righteous gentile, allowed Mordechai to arrange for a schochet, a ritual slaughterer, to make regular visits to the farm so the family could have kosher meat. With Mordechai he worked out a system allowing the family a certain amount of food according to the amount of service they provided. Although Wyzniewski never monitored them, they did not take advantage.
The children did not attend school. By day they worked with Leah, spending most of the day in the grove on ladders, picking apples. Apples were Wyniewski's principal product. Leah and the girls milked the cows. The boys collected eggs from the hen house. The heaviest work was left for Mordechai to do on Sundays. Everyone knew what their job was and rarely complained.
Mordechai was a tailor by trade. Every morning he walked to a shop in town, except on the sabbath and on Sundays. On Sundays the tailor shop was closed. He had the opportunity to bring some cash home to his family sewing suits and coats by hand from the finest cloth available in Eastern Europe. Wealthy Polish gentlemen bought the clothes he made and wore them with pride.
On one particular Autumn day, a day they would always remember, Moishe, the youngest, cried out when he scratched his tired hand on a twig as he reached for a temptingly ripe apple. Leah came over to look at it. "Oy, Moishele, maybe you have done enough for today." She spit on her handkerchief and wiped away a small amount of blood. His mama kissed Moishe's wounded hand and tied the hankie around it.
The sun was beginning to set as they carried their ladders and sacks of apples to store in a shed. Leah prepared a rich potato and leek soup, while they waited patiently for Papa to come home. As the sky grew darker, Raisel's tummy began to growl.
Fishel put his jacket on. "Don't worry, Mama. He must have stopped to rest. I'll find Papa." She gave him a lit candle in a lantern. "Be careful, Fishele." Leah trusted him. Although he was still a boy, he always had the responsibilities of a man.
Fishel walked in the dark with his lantern until he heard sobbing. He swung the lantern toward the sound. His papa sat hunched beside a tree, bleeding from his head and face. The boy walked to him and helped him stand. Mordechai stumbled a bit trying to shake off his feelings of humiliation. "I'll be alright." He pushed Fishel's arm away and walked on his own.
"They were only boys." Mordechai said, agitated. "Dirty Yid!" they called me." Sha, Papa. Relax." "Don't tell me, sha. I must speak. They beat me with branches, five or six momzas. They threw me to the ground, kept hitting me and calling me names."
As they stood at the door, both bloodied from Mordechai's wounds, Leah looked at the two of them, and her legs grew weak. She had fed the girls and Moishe earlier and put them to bed. That night the three adults sat and made a plan to leave the apple grove forever.
More than a hundred years ago, in an apple grove, on a farm close to Warszawa, a young Jewish family lived in a modest house. The papa was named Mordechai and the mama, Leah. Raisel, fifteen, and Bracha, thirteen, the daughters, were their eldest children. The whole family worked the farm, owned by a Polish farmer, in exchange for living in the small log house, and eating farm-grown food.
The farmer, Mr. Wyzniewski, a righteous gentile, allowed Mordechai to arrange for a schochet, a ritual slaughterer, to make regular visits to the farm so the family could have kosher meat. With Mordechai he worked out a system allowing the family a certain amount of food according to the amount of service they provided. Although Wyzniewski never monitored them, they did not take advantage.
The children did not attend school. By day they worked with Leah, spending most of the day in the grove on ladders, picking apples. Apples were Wyniewski's principal product. Leah and the girls milked the cows. The boys collected eggs from the hen house. The heaviest work was left for Mordechai to do on Sundays. Everyone knew what their job was and rarely complained.
Mordechai was a tailor by trade. Every morning he walked to a shop in town, except on the sabbath and on Sundays. On Sundays the tailor shop was closed. He had the opportunity to bring some cash home to his family sewing suits and coats by hand from the finest cloth available in Eastern Europe. Wealthy Polish gentlemen bought the clothes he made and wore them with pride.
On one particular Autumn day, a day they would always remember, Moishe, the youngest, cried out when he scratched his tired hand on a twig as he reached for a temptingly ripe apple. Leah came over to look at it. "Oy, Moishele, maybe you have done enough for today." She spit on her handkerchief and wiped away a small amount of blood. His mama kissed Moishe's wounded hand and tied the hankie around it.
The sun was beginning to set as they carried their ladders and sacks of apples to store in a shed. Leah prepared a rich potato and leek soup, while they waited patiently for Papa to come home. As the sky grew darker, Raisel's tummy began to growl.
Fishel put his jacket on. "Don't worry, Mama. He must have stopped to rest. I'll find Papa." She gave him a lit candle in a lantern. "Be careful, Fishele." Leah trusted him. Although he was still a boy, he always had the responsibilities of a man.
Fishel walked in the dark with his lantern until he heard sobbing. He swung the lantern toward the sound. His papa sat hunched beside a tree, bleeding from his head and face. The boy walked to him and helped him stand. Mordechai stumbled a bit trying to shake off his feelings of humiliation. "I'll be alright." He pushed Fishel's arm away and walked on his own.
"They were only boys." Mordechai said, agitated. "Dirty Yid!" they called me." Sha, Papa. Relax." "Don't tell me, sha. I must speak. They beat me with branches, five or six momzas. They threw me to the ground, kept hitting me and calling me names."
As they stood at the door, both bloodied from Mordechai's wounds, Leah looked at the two of them, and her legs grew weak. She had fed the girls and Moishe earlier and put them to bed. That night the three adults sat and made a plan to leave the apple grove forever.
FEAR AND LOVE
Fear of uncertainty
the unknown
or differences
is a feeling that can lead to hate
intangible
inhibiting
immobilizing.
Combat fear with
reason
intention
boldness
love.
Love uncertainty
its mystery
excitement
possibilities.
To conquer fear
embrace it
become familiar with it
understand it.
Regard fear as a wily child
to be soothed by love.
Never fear love.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
TWIGS
—Linda Klein
Twigs have their moment,
caught up in the whistling wind,
bared of life and leaves,
they strike a frivolous pose
and break, crackling, take
a fanciful flight, one last dance,
expressing their torment,
they are driven to wildly spin,
frail victims of thieves
in the cold dryness of Fall's close
allowing space for nature to make
Winter's chilling advance.
________________________
—Medusa, with many thanks to Linda Klein for her fine poems today! An apple a day, like a poem a day . . .
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Just remember:
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clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
