These white days in the heart of winter
\nthe heat that sustains me is in the warm
\ngrass that cradles my bare feet in
\nsummers past and yet to come.<\/p>\n
I think of hopping into the car, not bundled
\nwithin layers of warm fabric against the cold,
\nbut hanging loose in shorts and tee.
\nIn the trunk are the makings of a picnic.<\/p>\n
On the way, we all know there is a stop
\nat the little gas station where they sell
\nfresh curds after eleven on Tuesdays
\nand Fridays. Bags of them on the counter.<\/p>\n
They entwine intimately in sealed bags, pale
\nsquared finger length strips, almost cool
\nin traces of their slightly salty whey.
\nWe buy two bags: one for the trip,<\/p>\n
one for the beach. Rip open the bag and
\npass it around. Squeaky sighs of contentment
\nas each of us chews into the buttery,
\nslightly salty and yes squeaky wondrous food.<\/p>\n
Sometimes I think of poutine: hot gravy over
\ncurds and french fries, and my mouth waters.
\nBut mostly, I think of a bag of curds and a
\npitcher of draft beer, bare feet and sunshine.<\/p>\n
[podcast]http:\/\/riverwriter.ca\/podcast\/MONO-way-to-beach.mp3[\/podcast]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
K’ay suggested I write a poem about curds. There is a lot of dairy farming around here, mainly Holsteins. This has always been cheese country. We have always had a thing about curds: they have to be fresh, never refrigerated\u2014crucial. (#1023) Continue reading