My friend John moved to Okinawa for a year. He’s on an academic sabbatical. He is also a master meat smoker. When he left he gave me a whole frozen packer brisket, ready for me to try my hand at smoking it. My friend Roberto, who owns Old Havana Sandwich Shop along with his wife…
For almost as many years as we have been married Thursday Night Dinner has been a significant ritual in our lives. We invite folks over for dinner, I cook, and then we sit around and talk until we get tired. Over the past couple of years, thanks to Facebook and Twitter and my iPhone camera,…
. . . from Norman Jameson for Associated Baptist Press. ‘Don’t eat alone’ is metaphor for healthy Christian life, says minister-chef By Norman Jameson Forty-two years ago Milton Brasher-Cunningham first heard the words that rescued him, like a strong arm lifting a drowning person to safety. He was 16 and the new missionary kid from…
It’s been a while since I did a music post. Tonight, at the end of a hot summer day, I thought I might offer some of the songs that have been the soundtrack of my summer — mostly old friends, and certainly worth a listen. First is Mark Knopfler singing “A Night in Summer Long…
After my father died last year, Ginger and I were at my mother’s apartment and we saw two or three bags of little white powdered donuts in the pantry. When we asked about them,my mother said, “Every morning we got up and I made a pot of coffee and we had a couple of donuts…
I can see them coming over the tops of the trees the lights at the old ball park the roof tops of the old warehouses the clouds pile up some white as anger behind them a grey wall as deep as darkness here comes the rain again falling on my head like a memory what…
I am dreaming these days, but not in a language I remember; I wake up with some sense of where I’ve been . . . of stories I’ve been told . . . . In the resonance of my ruminations, I feel at home riding strange trains with Schanuzers who now live only in my…
the southern summer is not personal: the onslaught of heat and humidity falls on the just and unjust the sacred and the sweaty gets under your skin refusing to relent in its drive to depletion as you dart from one cool remove to the next more afternoons than not the swirl and stack of clouds…
“Love seeks to close all distance.” — John Berger — And Our Faces, My Heart, As Brief As Photos Life has a certain centrifugal force. In both large and small ways we are thrown to the edges, away from one another. The companion force is one that draws us to one another, that compels us…
the scallop shell was still swinging from the side of my backpack as I walked from home to our coffee shop to drop off cookies and write still a pilgrim I suppose this time in my own town broken sidewalks instead of trails sites made sacred by our stacks of stones and stories the best…