Okay, not really, but I do recall him, curls bobbing in time to his calisthenics and I recall also, that he said: "It is not a diet, it is a live-it." I like that and with more elegance, I like what Sweetcakes said about living in moderation, living that way to live more, longer. Decadence-deferred for the most decadent of reasons. Life: with or without the whipped creme, it is so rich.
I wasn't going to talk about this next thing, but now I will. I have given up meat again. I have wanted to do this for a long time and mainly because I am a big softie about animals and I felt a bit uncomfortable volunteering time for them, advocating and donating for many animal rights agencies and shelters and then eating meat. I do not judge anyone for that choice which is personal and I will not be talking much about this choice which is personal. But I will be talking about some survival tips for the avid foodie who thinks seasonings get their best audience on a big old slab of flesh. And I'll be bringing you along for this little journey because it will require great recipes and some real gymnastics of innovation and household compromise because, per usual for Mr. and Mrs. Poppycakes, we are almost complete opposites on this issue. Mr. Poppycakes loves his carnivorous feasts and does not plan to change that. Lesson number one of the marriage I have not yet begun is that I will not try to change him. So meals will be interesting around here and I'd like to share them with our dear Tasters.
I am enjoying many of the posts on The Gentle Chef and I will be trying some of their recipes and I will review them honestly here. I am not vegan and so last night I enjoyed another Trader Joes product for dinner and jazzed it up a bit with a fried egg on top. It leaned Korean and is currently my favorite dinner.
I will end with a poem by Ashley Capps because her blog Compassion is Consistent is informative and her poetry is consistently as compassionate as it is wise and beautiful.
I Used to See Her in the Field Beside My House
Perhaps it is the way your nipples,
long like fingers on an open hand,
beckon the tired, huddled, osteoporosis-fearing
masses to your swollen, steaming milk sack.
The skin of your huge behind ripples
where giant horseflies understand
only that you taste good, not that they hurt you while you're looking
at the vast and swirling pasture through a crack
in your stall. Cow, listen— forget the deep pools
of rain that pock the lit, green land-
scape of your youth. Forget the singing
man who rubbed your head. He's readying the rape rack.
In the end, you're skinned and processed. A hip pulls
loose, shoulders dismantle in the hands
of some masked worker. Old girl, there is nothing
in this world that loves you back.
Copyright © 2003 Ashley Capps