What’s in front of me is a list of the four ingredients for roasted broccoli:
salt
pepper
garlic powder
olive oil
I wonder why I left off the main ingredient.
I wrote the items down in my notebook on Friday night, and on Saturday late in the day I cut the broccoli into florets and used my hand to coat each little tree with the oil mixture.
Little trees, that’s what we call broccoli, Jim and I, as a way to entice the girls to savor it as much as we do. “Eat your little trees,” we might say. On Saturday evening Em asked, “Do you like the top of the tree or the trunk better?” Jim said “the top,” I said “the trunk,” and I thought of the bartender in an Italian restaurant where I worked in college who taught me to peel the thick skin and eat the stalk, it’s the sweetest part. At the close of each night I handed him a bag with all the stalks we would have tossed, and every time I make broccoli I think of him.
What’s in front of me is tap water in a cobalt blue glass on my nightstand, a necklace made of Catholic medallions, the kind you get for Confirmation or First Holy Communion, and lip gloss that belongs to Dee. I used the lip gloss last night, my lips were dry and it was there, bubble gum flavor. It reminded me of Taft Junior High and shiny tacky lips and a big white sweater I wore every day to school in 7th grade.
What’s in front of me are my knees propping up my notebook. I’m tired, too tired to sit up and write. I took Dee and Em on a long walk in the bosque, we left a little after three and we kept going as if we were compelled to find something further on the trail and further yet, we walked and ran, and I had the sense that the woods were alive with pulsating pinks and oranges and browns.
What’s in front of me is the prospect of having to go out in the cold night to pick up a prescription at Walgreens that I meant to call in all weekend. In front of me the strong possibility that I’ll blow it off until tomorrow morning. In front of me Jim saying “you’re not going to make it to the store if you lie down like that.” I smile but don’t stop writing, years of saying “you see me writing in my notebook? — don’t talk to me” have fallen on deaf ears.
-related to Topic Post, WRITING TOPIC – ATTENTION TO DETAIL
redravine.wordpress.com 
I love this. Portrait of a mother trying to write. Serendipitously, I wrote about how life is in the details in one of my early posts yesterday about the movie Stranger than Fiction, which I loved. Does that count as having done the practice? Reading your mind?
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I loved that movie, too! Will Ferrell is so goofy, the kind of face that makes you laugh just to look at it. Horsey in a cute way.
Hmmm, I don’t think it counts as doing the practice if you just happen to write about the topic, but good try. I’ll go check out your post. I thought I read your posts from yesterday. You are prolific, but then again, you are a blogologist.
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Blogologist! You got me. That was one that escaped. Ahhh, Crayola, you tempt me. But there is already this long line of thing to write about clamoring at the door of my brain. I know, I know, a practice will discover something new. Burnt sienna. No far. You live in New Mexico. Everything is burnt sienna.
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That should have been no fair, that no far.
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RECALL:
four ingredients for roasted broccoli
salt
pepper
garlic powder
olive oil
***wonder why I left off the main ingredient***
cut the broccoli into florets
used my hand to coat each little tree with the oil mixture
“Eat your little trees,”
“Do you like the top of the tree or the trunk better?”
***Jim said “the top,” I said “the trunk,”***
bartender in an Italian restaurant
peel the thick skin
eat the stalk
the sweetest part
***every time I make broccoli I think of him***
tap water
cobalt blue glass
**necklace made of Catholic medallions**
Confirmation or First Holy Communion
lip gloss that belongs to Dee
bubble gum flavor
Taft Junior High
shiny tacky lips and a big white sweater
7th grade
knees propping up my notebook
Dee and Em on a long walk in the bosque
woods were alive
***pulsating pinks and oranges and browns***
Walgreens
“you’re not going to make it to the store if you lie down like that.”
***I smile but don’t stop writing***
years of saying “you see me writing in my notebook? —don’t talk to me” have fallen on deaf ears
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Everything is burnt sienna.
LOL. I think I should start a rumor that everything is burnt sienna. Maybe no one will come here then.
I’m reminded of a plane ride (actually, more that one) I’ve taken in to NM, overhearing people from elsewhere say things like, “It’s so brown, it’s so ugly.” I always say to myself, “Good, you think that, and go out and spread the word.”
Although, I know, *we* know what Burnt Sienna *really* means!
Hey, QM, thanks for the recall.
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I like how “what’s in front of me” changes from objects to actions, to interactions with people. Your photo is beautiful too. The walk must have been amazing.
Also, you have a creative way of getting your kids to eat their veggies. Now, do they say trees look like giant broccoli?
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You left out the main ingredient from the roasted broccoli recipe because that really isn’t the main ingredient … it’s merely a vehicle for the garlicky olive oil, which prudent people can’t justify drinking as a beverage, much though they may wish to do so.
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Ha! Lately it seems, everything I make features garlicky olive oil in some way. Last night, turkey cutlets, brown rice, and Swiss chard sauteed in, guess what? It’s a great theory!
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[…] wrote this poem based on two prompts: a 15-minute writing practice from red Ravine, and the Monday Mural on Poefusion. I was thinking about the prompt, “what do […]
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Hey, C., now that you mention it, cottonwoods look A LOT like giant broccolis!!
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