Listen Here!

Listen here! This is my butter song. This is my chocolate song.
Real Irish butter. Real chocolate from the jungles of the heart. This is my bourbon kale cucumber smoothie song. Acoustic blues.

My song of remembering grandmother, when nobody ever heard of gluten. "Eat from the hand of love, child. That is the only law." A time before commandments.

Whatever fell from the wrinkled branches of Eden, her hands. Her prune eyes and persimmon cheeks. Dumplings and white gravy. Lemon maringue. Coconut custard. Cornmeal mush.

Watercress she picked in the woods by a stream. Dandelion greens from pools of August sunlight. The past and future melting on a spiral of hotcakes, each blueberry a wound, a void, a center of the golden Dharma wheel.

I still smell her biscuits soaking up the essence of all created things. I still taste frozen cream, sticking out of milk bottles at the back door on a Winter morning.

Listen here. Singing is better than obedience. This is my song. If you cook with butter, you might not live as long. But if you don't, you might not live at all.