“I’m from hard-boiled eggs” by Julia on M’s couch

Saturday, April 14, 2018
11:28pm
5 minutes
E 9th Street
Ricky Cantor

I’m from soft-boiled eggs on a sunday, little olive oil, salt and pepper
Dad knows his way around the simple pleasures in life
sneaks fresh figs across the border in September
stirs in the good grappa in his espresso instead of sugar
cares about if I know my times tables
I’m from fried eggs and anchovies in the summer time
visit the sanctuary in the back yard and do not move until the mosquitoes eat you
Dad picks cherry tomatoes from the garden and tosses them on our plates
he doesn’t sit with us on the porch while we eat
he is busy inside making the second course so he never has to say a word

“Semi-bush vines, very sweet,” by Julia on her parents’couch


Monday December 26, 2016
2:02am
5 minutes
from an old tag

I was waiting for the perfect lull of eventual inhale that my mother would have to take before continuing on in her way about the planters and the balcony hangers. She always got so excited about the possibility of me becoming more self-sufficient in a way that no one would have thought twice about when she was my age. I didn’t exactly have the heart to tell her hat I didn’t have a green thumb or possibly any thumb and this would all be a moot point. She was too busy telling me I could do basil and parsley or tomatoes even, because then I could “at least make a proper sugo.” What I really wanted was for her to stop talking long enough for me to tell her about the poem that had just gotten accepted into a Canadian anthology. Maybe she would be excited that I managed to make some kind of art..or maybe she would think it didn’t matter if it couldn’t be added to an eggplant parmigiana.

“Feed Your Family” by Sasha at W Cafe


Tuesday March 17, 2015 at W Cafe
10:10am
5 minutes
taste.com

At Ken and June’s wedding
I sweat through my red silk dress
Alexandra sang Unforgettable
and everyone jumped in the river between the
ceremony
and the
reception
The rocky bank speckled with lacy undies and
spotted boxer shorts
like trilliums

I found Jasmine crying in the outhouse and
I told her a joke about a mushroom
she laughed
and
snot bubbled from her nose
and we both laughed
and I only thought once about the time that she made me
get in the red
Honda Civic with her ex-boyfriend
after he’d been drinking

Henry and I danced
only to fast songs
June took off her high-heeled shoes and ran
bare-foot
through the vegetable garden
pulling up carrots and handfuls of
nasturtiums

“shouting and laughing and throwing dirt” by Sasha on her porch


Thursday February 26, 2015
4:46pm
5 minutes
My Immortal Promise
Jen Holling


shouting and laughing and throwing dirt
our clothes are the earth’s fingerprints
and our shoes are the bits of bulbs
the new life will come soon
we can feel it between our toes
we make mud pies and sell them to each other
for three butterfly kisses
two sets of sisters
we were born to be here
naked as the days we were born
nothing of it
only bodies and unselfconscious beauty
only girls
drinking from the spout at the side of the house
puppies
painting our faces with beet greens
drawing stories on our backs with dandelion

“Potting Mix” by Sasha on the patio at Jimmy’s Coffee


Friday June 27, 2014 at Jimmy’s Coffee
11:25am
5 minutes
from the bag of soil

She spent more time in the garden to ease her broken-ness.
She called in sick to work and instead of burying her head in orders and inventory, so buried her hands in soil.

It was quiet in the morning, before the neighbours woke and turned on the radio and called for breakfast and
She breathed in the dew and the brightness of the bleeding hearts
Like hers
So familiar.

She picked a rose
Some lavender
A sprig of something pink and something red she couldn’t remember the name of
And stuck them in an old maple syrup bottle
And put that on her desk
So the outside could come in.

She picked mint
And sorrel
And purple basil
Arugula
Kale
And made a salad for lunch.

“Potting Mix” by Julia at MAKE coffee+stuff


Friday June 27, 2014 at MAKE
2:29pm
5 minutes
from the bag of soil

So my friend’s friend’s sister gave my friend’s friend one of those basil growing kits and my friend’s friend didn’t want it so she gave it to my friend who hated growing stuff unless it was pot so my friend gave it to me and told me to “make it rain”. She was clever like that. Sometimes she’d say things like “If the glove fits, hide it” or “Take me, break me, but please don’t forsake me”. Some of them work really well in sentences and some were only medium good. The “make it rain” thing kind of applied though. It was like “Go with God” or “Grow with God” which is what my friend would have said if she had thought about it for just two more seconds. So I wanted to “make it rain” as it were cause it meant I’d be in the “green” or whatever with the basil. Which is green. Like money. You get it. I had never grown a single thing in my entire life. I couldn’t even get behind those sea-monkeys cause what the shit were those even anyway?

“we pass the time very well” by Julia at Sambuca Grill


Saturday May 24, 2014 at Sambuca Grill
5:20pm
5 minutes
Sambuca Grill Drink List

we have a garden in the backyard that we’re just waiting to use. the guy who lives upstairs says DO NOT TOUCH and he says it with a sign and also with his lawn gnomes. we are not phased by lawn gnomes. he should have picked a scarier thing like a troll or a baby. we stare out into the yard every night and we plot our moves. we tell ourselves that when he goes away for the weekend we’ll take out our wheelbarrow and bring in some quality garden goods to our side of the house. we say to ourselves that we won’t need to take a lot, but enough of everything. he wants the red stuff and i want the green. we make sure that even in our minds we don’t take too much. can’t be greedy in fantasies because that’s being ill-prepared for realities. we pass the time very well when waiting for the upstairs guy to go away for the night or for the whole weekend. we make shadow puppets on the wall and tell each other stories in cooky voices. we drink flat ginger ale and ask each other questions about the rain forest and the prairies. we put an egg timer on the stove and try not to move until the timer goes off. we touch each other up and down our bodies using only our eyelashes.

“Limit to your love” by Julia at her kitchen table


Monday March 3, 2014
12:33pm
5 minutes
A cover by James Blake of a song by Feist
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oOT2-OTebx0


I’m begging that there isn’t
that there never ever will be
that you’ll say when I die, that that’s it for you too now
that if you never met me you wouldn’t have made it to 40
I don’t like the idea of one day you realizing how awful I am
You accept all my things, my good things, my bad things, with such selflessness
I’m dreading “one day”
I’m dreading “sometime”
Because what I’ve learned from you by you loving me
is that love is a CHOICE
and that you could have had your pick
and that they all would have chosen you right back
People say you can’t help who you love
I disagree
I say you can help it, and you should help it
Put a couple extra smiles into the mix, a few more tonnes of laughs and understanding, a spoon or two beyond the recipe of sacrifice and open minded, full hearted, unbridled compassion
see the person in front of you with new eyes every day
look into their souls from their baby pictures and notice
that the good natured innocence is still there
that love is a choice because we make it, because we want it
Not because it falls into our lap and we just agree to keep it
It’s a garden in metaphor for a reason
The grass is only green where you water it
because that’s the true secret to love

“I never knew a poet personally” by Sasha at her desk


Sunday, September 22, 2013
10:35pm
5 minutes
Away Alone
Janet Noble


I never knew a poet personally but I sure as the garden of roses knew those words of theirs. And that’s pretty personal, isn’t it? The first poem I learned got me through a backpacking trip across Europe and the heartbreak of leaving my dear old dog, Bruce. The second poem found me love and found me the best french kisses on this side of the equator. The third poem got me pregnant. The fourth saw me planting a garden and hauling manure into the back of the Daddy’s blue truck. The fifth, the sixth, the nineteenth, got me through childbirth. By forty, three kids, two cities and one Bruce-grave later, I knew over one hundred and three poems, all stored up there in the cobwebby corners that can’t seem to remember things like birthdays or taking out the recycling.

“You can grow” by Julia at Sambuca Grill


Thursday, September 19, 2013 at Sambuca Grill
5:09pm
5 minutes
Mindbodygreen.com

Herbs, he was thinking. Big basil in the back yard, big love in the kitchen. He watched his father build a beautiful garden filled with every kind of tomato and green leaf and rhubarb. He didn’t know his wife hated rhubarb when they first met, but when he realized he was hopeful that he would change her mind. His mother, on the other hand, loved the stuff so much they were eating a rhubarb pie every 4th day. And nobody complained. Big love in the kitchen. He sometimes questioned his ability to read people. He was on occasion disappointed with his wife’s narrow minded pallet, her stubbornness when it came to trying new things. How was she raised? He’d sometimes wonder out lout and let his brain move back to the days where his parents didn’t even give him the option. Eat what’s on your plate, they’d say.

“sorrow for the lost” by Sasha on her couch


Tuesday, September 3, 2013
1:40pm
5 minutes
The Raven
Edgar Allan poe


I’m wearing my new retainer and man, those things get a bad rap. I’m feeling like a million bucks! My teeth are being straightened, man! I’ve waited my whole life for this moment. My whole damn life! I’m thirty-seven, okay. I didn’t want to keep waiting to be struck by lightning and have all the crappy stuff sorted out. At least that’s how it happened for Maria. You know, she was in her garden, harvesting carrots and chives, and the storm was coming. She was committed, though, man. Struck. Just like that. By a big, ol’ bolt of lightning. And from that day forward, stuff really started to turn around for her. No more hives on her stomach, or allergies to weeds! Kenny even called from the City to wish her a happy belated birthday! So, yeah, I’m wearing my new retainer, and some people think I look like a dink, but I feel like King of the World.

Water glass, pint glass and a bottle of hot sauce (photo) by Julia at her kitchen table


Saturday, April 20, 2013
4:22am
5 minutes
Dip!

Spicy kind of girl with spicy kind of skin.
Smells like something from a summer garden in Italy.
Feels as smooth as shea butter cream.
She gives that extra wink without even meaning to.
If she were any less good-looking she would never get away with eating messy foods in public.
Spicy.
Full of spice and some other stuff that she doesn’t like to talk about.
Like anger and disappointment for most people she meets.
Why?
Why does she do that?
Why does anyone do anything, retorts back at you.
It’s cold in her house.
So she sits on the floor of an abandoned underground used bookstore at the corner of her street.
No one comes in and no one goes out, she thinks, wishing she could bring business back.
Spicy. No amount of perfume will cover it.
Is it the raw garlic she used to eat as a child?
Daddy offered her sister two dollars to eat a whole clove. Or two.
A dare.
She’d do it voluntarily, never really cared for money.
It happens sometimes.
When she’s alone.
She licks her lips till they’re raw, then smacks them hard to feel the tingle.