La la la la la

When I dig out, I'll be back.  

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I Fell Down a Hole! On writin' and Eatin'

I was lookin' at "first lines." I does that. When all else fails, I look at first lines in books and essays--to see how the author draws ya' right on in to what she has to tell about.

So I read this:

Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants.

(Hear that Anon Boxer-Babe??)

This from a piece in the hated rag, NYTimes, by Michael Pollan. Yep, he got me...I did read on and you night want to too, here.
( It's worth it if you are alarmed by the conflicting studies what shows that low fat diets DO NOT reduce coronary risks or breast cancer)


Somehow, from thar' I got to huntin' fer grass-fed, naturally raised beef and pork, on account of Floridy bein' a big cattle raisin' state. Did mah huntin' on the internet. Ha!

Mercy, I done fell into a hole deep and wide and ain't hardly found the way to right-side-up yet!

Did ya'll know that ya can find yore own local produce, chickens, eggs, beef and pork, even lamb prolly within an hours drive? I din't know that--oh, yeah I did, it's jes' that I thought it would be sorta catch as catch can.

Ah, no. Thar's a SUPER abundance of amazin' local foods. Can ya'll tell I'se excited??

First, look here to get yoreself a clickable link to yore own state's goodies.

I found Magnolia Farms, not too far up the road from me &Uncle...and ya'll can bet you'll be hearin' about what I find thar'.

They sell dairy goats and I had (momentary!) visions of makin' mah own goat cheese. Reckon I'll jes buy the comestibles not the producers.






Ya'll has heard here of my love fer farmer poet Wendell Berry and especially his
book Another Turn of the Crank. This book is on farming, globalism, and what we Southerners call "communitarianism." Ya' really--now, REALLY, need to read it. It's short. Just do it. (Okay, gotta stop on Berry, cause I could write fer weeks on him and his work. Read Jayber Crow too iffin' ya want an honest novel)

Fallin' further down that hole I mentioned at the top....I got onto this blog, whose profile reads:

"Nearly everyone dreams of moving to the country, but few people are crazy enough to actually do it. I'm one of those few. In 1994, at 26, I sold my little bakery cafe, packed up 200 boxes of books & antiques, & waved goodbye to my native California. Armed with a basic knowledge of gardening, an overenthusiastic sense of adventure & lots of naivete, I ended up on a 280-acre, 140-year-old farm in the middle of nowhere. I became cook, gardener, shepherd, farmhand, vet, surrogate mom, wildlife expert, midwife & undertaker. My prep school education & graphic design background were useless. I went from attending restaurant openings & gallery receptions to working the rural fire dept's BBQ booth at the crafts fair & munching fried pies at country auctions. Seven years ago I moved to an even more remote 240-acre farm which I share with sheep, chickens, 2 dogs, 7 cats, 4 very entertaining donkeys & one really well fed farmguy. My life revolves around food. I write food & garden articles & have taught cooking classes & contributed to cookbooks. I'm a passionate bread baker, and we're slowly building a small wholesale artisan bread bakery here on the farm."

I'm still fallin' down the hole...but wanted to send back this SOS....in case ya want fall on in heah too!!

(p.s. I will do the Mute Monday, then re-post this post so we'uns can exchange good finds after yore own falls!)

Be a Winner!

I got this email note:

"Did you see that X*X*X* was an Olympic sinner?"



No. I ain't seen that event. ( I know I know!! I'se unreliable and a cheat-I did see some of it them games.)

Of course, what my correspondent meant was "winner", jes' hit one key down, heh heh.

I'se in misery. Deadline hell. Cain't play wif' mah blogger folks--dang it!

So I thought I'd spread the misery around some. If I gotta write, least ya'll can do is keep me company. Okay?

Please leave me a limerick --'member last year's contest??

I DID award an actual prize (not a cyber prize) and will again send some token of mah esteem, to the sinner...ah, that is, WINNER.



A limerick refresher course: a five line poem where the first, second and fifth lines rhyme, and the third and fourth lines rhyme, hence the rhyming line scheme of AABBA. Typically the first "A" lines (first, second and fifth) have 8-9 syllables and the middle couplet have 5-6 syllables. The key is that all three "A" lines is best when they have the same number of syllables, and the couplet ("B") lines should have the same number of syllables. The rhythm is as important as the rhyme.

Here's examples plucked from the net:

There was a young lady from Hyde,
Who ate a green apple and died.
While her lover lamented,
The apple fermented,
And made cyder inside her inside.


In choosing words, some are verbose
That render their wit adipose
Give me tight-writ precision
For verse of concision
And make every word serve the best prose.



Now, as in them Olympics, ya' can increase yore score by choosin' a limerick of higher difficulty. Extra points if yore limerick reflects what we know of ya' from your own blogger profile--here is an example that would apply to Big Shamu and Java Junkie:

I prefer living my life adagio
Doing nothing more strained than intaglio
Or a book at compline
With a glass of white wine
And some artisan bread and fromaggio.


or, fer extry points, spin a limerick about any recent blog topic:

A pesky chattering squirrel,
I shot wif mah derringer of pearl
He lost his prized nuts
And 'bout half his guts
Now he sings like a little girl.


Ya' can be a wee bit risque,
limericks is funnier that way
but please doan overdo
it disqualifies you
thas' what Uncle tole me to say.

Now iffin' ya had a lot of fun, enter as many limericks as ya' please. Contest open until Midnight Sunday Aug 31, PST.

Underrated Friday: The Writer's Life

Oh sure, ya'll already knows how the writer is the lowest paid "professional" in the cosmos. I reckon all ya'll would have self esteem enough to yell back at an editor: "Iffin' ya think I'll work fer a dollar a word, youse thinkin' wif' the wrong end!" When the 14 year-old editor snarls back how Harry Kerry is writin' fer only fiddy cent a word, you'd tell him to jam that fiddy cent piece up his nose, open the olfactory cave and smell the cawfee.

As if we writers doan know that editors is DESPERATE fer content, or analysis, or if youse the editor of the New Yawk Times, pure fabrication.
Idiotors is addicted to satire, lies, detraction and slander. We got they number.

AN' I s'pose ya'll knows statistics show writers is party animals! (Doan believe it. Those big name writers at New Yawk glitterati parties is jes' props wif' scotch in they hands so the rest of us schmoes will have somethin' to believe in.)

Despite the paltry pay, the Defcon-five panic of deadlines, bein' driven to drink, snatching yore hair out til' yore nickname is "patches," bein' plagiarized but too poor to sue multi-million dollar publishers (the big boys knows that!) the writin' life has valuable perks!

Sure, we have compensation fer gulag hours. No, really, the writin' life is underrated.

We can "go to work" in our nightgowns.[nope, that ain't Aunty in that chair, thas' Ester, some woman brave enough to post her photo on the net. But ya'll gits the idea?]

Yep, writin' in nightgowns saves the dry cleaning budget. And the commute ain't bad-- down the hall from the bedroom to the door whar' they's a sign from the health department: "Contamination-Enter at own risk."

Heh, that's the gubmint fer ya'. How is they gonna pay all them inspectors three times yore lousy pittance iffin' they doan hand out citations fer month old peanut butter crusts and the mold in the bottom of a half dozen cawfee cups?

That Health inspector woan have no respect fer yore labor, an' doan even think ya' can schmooze him up some wif erudite mumblings about Conrad or Kerouac.
This hair-parted-in-the-middle-mouth-breather ain't even read Horton Hears a Who.

Yeah, we have amazin' perks.

When Myrtle calls to invite ya to her Tupperware Extravaganza, ya sweetly decline cause ya' have a rewrite to do.

Need a tax write off? (sure ya do--that's how ya make up fer yore fiddy cent a word job!) Every scrap of paper ya buy, every box of cheap pens, an--yep, every book, magazine and audio CD ya drags home fer research goes into the tax deduction category. Take that all you cheaters whose writin' off island vacations and three hour five scotch lunches. Jes' because we's writin' at home doan mean we can't keep up wif' the cheaters of fame. Full disclosure: when Aunty becomes a high paid wordsmith, I'se gonna write off a two week cookin' school in Tuscany as part of research fer my next BlockBuster. Jes' fair warnin to the rest of you tax slaves, I'se gonna relish those loopholes fer the weird and famous.

When ya' need a greasy despicable character wif mastadon breath -- use yore editor as a thinly disguised model! In this way ya' give vent to all that rage youse been savin' up fer him. He's gigged like the warty toad he is-- 'cause he cain't say nuthin' 'bout it wif'out admitin' he recognizes hisself--whoo-hoo!

When ya's nutty wif loss of sleep an' talks to ya'self in the grocery check out line, an ' neighbors thinks youse got a split personality, or goin' daffy ya' jes' wink and say "tryin' out a new character fer my newest novel."

Yep, writers can cover a multitude of personality disorders by pretendin' they's pretendin'.

When ya's feverish wif fear of editor breath and deadlines, agitated, and cain't sit in yore ergonomic chair one millisecond more ya can roam the bookstores late at night, see who else is feverish and freaked out. There's company in misery.

Jes' open to the first page of the top ten bestsellers and read the opening line. "Jehosaphat! She got a million dollar advance fer this pile of donkey dung?!?" Then ya look around an' see four other haids at four other bestseller tables shakin and sayin' "I coulda written better swill on my worst day! What editor paid for this hooch inspired verbiage?"



We'uns know the score. In eight months those same books will be on the fiddy cent pile of unsold remainders.

Ya' can live in fantasy land. Wish green cats could fly? Write sci-fi.
























Wish men had babies? Write San Francisco sci-fi.
Wish peace could win hearts and minds?
Write for a liberal magazine or TV series.
Wish old hags looked like 12 year-olds?
Write for Cosmopolitan.

Iffin' ya git caught roamin in yore woods in yore starry red robe at 4pm, folks will jes' say,
"That's our eccentric artiste!" It gives a certain cache to the neighborhood.


















[heh..nope this red robed wood sprite ain't Aunty, my robe ain't red, nor starry]

When ya git outa the starry robe an' into yore leetle black dress and sling back stilettos wif' a flute of Prosecco in yore manicured hand, ya' can talk high-toned trash like "narrative collage," "metafiction," "neo-modernist" an' "fabulation," and folks will swoon at yore erudition.

Or, ya can make up words, like "erudiction" and most will believe youse in possession of a
phenomenal vocabulary or an edoocated male amusment. Let 'em wonder.

Yep, the writin' life is way underrated. As one nimble minded writer once noted, "despite some appalling frustrations" writing is after all "the happiest life on earth." Yeah, well, that happy writer had a spread in Architectural Digest that featured her back yard tent where she went when writing piled up over her head.

On the other hand, this tent-dwellin' scribbler also wrote,

"The mind fits the world and shapes it as a river fits and shapes its own banks."

Wish't I'd written that.

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