For the Standing Stone Coffee Company

We are more than a polite gaggle,
clustered uncommonly close
in this clean, well-lighted place
where steam rises from our cups
and we face the reader, fully present.
We are luring glances of voyeur pedestrians,
nearly successful at not looking
into our poetry terrarium. The driver
of the pickemup truck eases up to the STOP sign,
asks his passenger, “Whathey really doin in there?”
A tall dog straining to cop its first good look
at a poet’s back through the window
has its leash jerked by the woman
it is taking for a walk.

We are the ones rejected from cheerleading tryouts
because our attention-spans were too long.
Now we sit expectantly in the presence
of someone else’s dreams, alert to any overlapping
with our own. We are cheerleading for poetry,
awaiting the Hail Mary stanza, the verbal dunk
with or without the slam, or simple evidence
that, against all odds, one of us made something
from nothing with words – an original thing
we didn’t know we were waiting to hear.

We have excommunicated ourselves from
the Church of Traumatic Haste, with its instant
coffee communion, seeking solace here,
where the owner-priest uses the espresso machine’s
asthmatic gargle to edit botched similes
and despondent spondees. His gasping steam-clouds
redolent of fair-trade beans can only mean

Jack Troy

Dripping. It’s an unpleasant sight. With every ounce of mysterious fluid splattering on the ground we wince at the unknown source and where the problem may lie. A pop of the hood may reveal low tank levels or signs of problems to come, depending on your familiarity of engineering and mechanics.

On Wednesday my radiator decided to shed a fear of its green tears upon the asphalt of the driveway. Stellar. What I hoped was a puddle from my de-froster turned into a puddle coming from this box-like structure in the front of my 1987 Chevy Celebrity (pictured right).

Yes, I know what you’re thinking, and no, it’s not for sale! This antique wonder with over 160,000 miles, 6 cylinder mobile of merriment is a flashback to the days of big hair, big hairspray, and stir-up pantaloons. Despite it’s lack of cup holders (a great disadvantage for savvy coffee drinkers like myself), cruise control, and a half-decent radio you have to pound with you hand to hear anything past 100.6, I enjoy the spacious trunk, classy appearance,  bragging rights, and the infamous middle front seat (with seat belt!)

Enough about the features of this car and back to the problem at hand. My radiator is leaking! This inconvenient discovery resulted in a prompt phone call to mechanic extraordinaire, my father. Being a mechanic himself for his entire life, I have yet to know of anything that has stumped this fellow of victory under the hood, around the frame, and even in a paint job. After describing the situation, the temporary attempt to plug this leaker is some AlumaSeal Stop Leak. Open, pour, drink, and hope for the best.

Although I am waiting to see whether this Stop Leak is holding true to it’s name, the actual process was quite enjoyable. There’s something inherently good about caring for something (even if it is just a year younger than you and twice as old as everything else on the road). There’s something to being a steward (fancy word for caretaker) of something, whether it be your home, a yard, the environment, and yes, even your little vroom-vroom. Opening up something, getting dirty, and working to solve a problem wasn’t intimidating but actually exciting. I was learning something new. I was taking care of the Chevy Celebrity (which is usually done by my father. The extent of my duties are car washes and fuel fill-ups.)

A neighbor fellow came over to chat and asked if I needed any help. I truly didn’t because things were pretty under control. We chatted briefly as he smoked a cigarette by the hood of my engine (which is always weird. At least he wasn’t standing next to my gas tank). This guest voiced his concern/opinion about my situation, questioning the effectiveness of my handy dandy bottle of Stop Leak. I played the Father card and stated “Well, it has worked for him, worth a shot!”

Upon reflection, these situations and prime for when we become stewards of things and care of people, places and things in our world. We need tough questions to think out our intentions and choices (although that is a stretch for this example. Not a lot of tough questions coming across).

So I wait and shall see what becomes of the Celebrity and it’s radiator malfunction. At least the test drive was accompanied by NPR’s show Car Talk. Fitting and always a good laugh.

Go on a date with your car. Check the fluids and take it to a car wash.  Then enjoy the purr of thanks on the open road.

I just ate an entire pan of roasted potatoes. I’m not kidding. These amazing spuds were intended to feed guests arriving in an hour.  Looks like batch two is in order.

I’m a horrible hostess! How did this happen? Do I have no self-control? Well, maybe and maybe not, but let me explain what happened. I taste-tested this potato dish to check on the quality. Seriously! I drifted from the recipe because this lactose-intolerant gal didn’t feel like throwing in cheese and a 1/2 cup of milk in a cassarole if she didn’t have to. Therefore, the recipe went for an adventure in the kitchen and straight into the oven.

I thought the first bite was a trip to heaven and back. I don’t think I’ve ever made anything that tasted so incredible. Fresh dill, red potatoes, sauted onions, garlic powder, salt, pepper, Italian seasoning, basil, spinach, and olive oil were the ingredients to this euphoric pan of wonder. Good golly.

I can’t believe I’ve actually started cooking. The story begins over a year ago when I left the nest of community life and ventured into a single apartment with a single bathroom, single livingroom, single deck, and a single kitchen. How sad and single. Since my adventure of being single in the kitchen began, I have eaten for meals the following things:

• A can of spinach
• Whole wheat pasta spirals with butter
• Lots of tuna
• Cereal

Pretty pathetic, eh? But this story of scraps and arriving at friends houses at meal times came to an end when summer began.

I’m part of a farm co-op called “Plowshare Produce”. These certified organic growing experts are located just 15 minutes out of town with a wide variety of delicious rutabagas, carrots, onions, kale, potatoes, herbs, spinach, squash, pumpkins, and a zillion other tasty treats from the soil. I receive a half-share, which means every other Friday is an organic blessing in a bag at one of their distribution points, Standing Stone Coffee Company.

What the crow do I do with a turnip? Beets? Well, it’s time to get creative in the kitchen! This summer has been a journey of experimenting of cooking, baking, eating healthy and eating well while supporting the local scene. This week was the last plowshare until next year. I think I can hear my heart whimpering (but my stomach will be first to let me know).

It’s time to re-define some sterotypes of single folks. Sure, we may have odd meals but we are also creative cooking folks with creative minds and satisfied tastebuds when the oven door swings open and the spoon dives into our meals. And the best part? This cooking creates opportunites to give food to others, to share in the bounty of what we are blessed with as others have blessed us through lunches, brunches, dinners, snacks, and best of all, companionship around a table.

Examine life. Forget the grade
forget the promises you’ve made
to study useful things, and hear
the distant voices, whispered clear
a moment now, before they fade.

There’s time, later, to learn a trade.
Be like those wanderers who strayed
away from roads other revere:
examine life.

And listen to the serenade
that other, wiser heads forbade:
seek out the unexplored frontier
before the time can disappear
then, looking back, now unafraid
examine life.

W.F. Lantry