Abby’s’ Kitchen
This is some of the work that our friend Paul did for Abby over in North Portland. Paul works with us frequently, and I would consider him a master craftsman of the highest degree. He is also a ceramicist, and an oriental paper maker as well. He is the best of company on any job!
Abby and Tom live in north Portland. Abby works as a musician, in a flute quartet if I recall correctly. She and Tom have a wonderful rambling house on an large lot, it is a very nice place indeed…. Her kitchen is the center of her home, and even more so now I would venture….
Gwyllm

Our friend Paul with his Ceramic Bagels…

The Bagels Mounted on Abby’s wall behind the stove…

Paul needed a snack….!

The Finished Kitchen Collage…

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Poems For Kitchens, Eating & Drinking…

Hunger, The Pang

Our mother earth gives

For one good grain sown

Hundreds of fresh grains

For our food in return.
How many sweet fruits

For a life time she gives

For one seed she takes

As one tree it grows?
Any animal on the land

Or any bird on the air

For its morrow’s food

Does it take all the care?
For the food on the ground

How a crow makes a sound

Of ‘caw’ to call crows around

Just to share what it found?
When big cooked rice balls

An elephant in its mouth takes

A part of it on the floor spills

That feeds hundreds of ants.
But when a have on this earth

For his self, the food he hoards,

Doesn’t the have-not’s mouth

Go unfed for days countless?
The food in a pompous feast

A junk of it goes as rubbish.

If this goes to the poor at least

Will that not fulfill God’s wish?
The worst pain in the world

Is what the hunger gives

But this can be solved

If all follow the crows.
-Rajaram Ramachandran

A Drinking Song
Wine comes in at the mouth

And love comes in at the eye;

That’s all we shall know for truth

Before we grow old and die.

I lift the glass to my mouth,

I look at, and I sigh.
-William Butler Yeats


On A Slope Of Orchard

There on a slope of orchard, Francis laid

A damask napkin wrought with horse and hound,

brought out a dusky loaf that smelt of home,

And cut down, a pasty costly made,

Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret, lay

Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks

Imbedded and in jellied.
-Alfred, Lord Tennyson


A Recipe for a Salad

To make this condiment, your poet begs

The pounded yellow of two hard-boiled eggs;

Two boiled potatoes, passed through kitchen sieve,

Smoothness and softness to the salad give.
Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl,

And, half suspected, animate the whole.

Of mordant mustard add a single spoon,

Distrust the condiment that bites so soon;

But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault,

To add a double quantity of salt.
Four times the spoon with oil from Lucca brown,

And twice with vinegar procured from town;

And, lastly, o’er the flavored compound toss

A magic soupcion of anchovy sauce.
O, green and glorious! O herbaceous treat!

‘T would tempt the dying anchorite to eat:

Back to the world he’d turn his fleeting soul,

And plunge his fingers in the salad bowl!

Serenely full, the epicure would say,

“Fate cannot harm me, I have dined to-day.”
-Sydney Smith


The Song Of Right And Wrong

Feast on wine or fast on water,

And your honor shall stand sure

If an angel out of heaven

Brings you something else to drink,

Thank him for his kind attentions,

Go and pour it down the sink.
G.K. Chesterton