open windows & unlocked doors

Vegan French Vegetable Soup with Pistou

noreply@blogger.com (Richard Russeth) — Sat, 08 Oct 2011 21:51:00 +0000

Perfect soup for the first snow day of the year.

Soup:

2 Tbs. unsalted butter (or olive oil to make it vegan)
3 medium leeks (white and pale green parts medium finely chopped (about 5 cups)
2 large shallots, finely chopped
1/2 cup dry white wine
6 medium potatoes - russet works but I like gold
6 medium carrots (try to get some different colors), chopped
5 cloves garlic, minced (I like more...)
1 Tbs. fresh thyme or 1 tsp. dried
1 Large bay leaf
4 cups vegetable broth
2 cups water

1-3 tsp. truffle oil (to taste)

Pistou:

1 cup firmly packed basil leaves
1/4 cup walnuts (toasted is nice but not essential)
2 cloves garlic
1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil

What To Do:

1. Melt butter in pan over medium heat.
2. Add leeks and shallots and a 1/2 tsp. of sea salt.
3. Cover and cook until leeks are softened. Stir often. Maybe 10 minutes.
4. Add wine and garlic. Cook uncovered until the wine is mostly evaporated.
5. Add carrot, potato, thyme, bay leaf, broth and water. Cover and bring to a boil...reduce heat and simmer for 35 - 45 minutes (until everything is really soft). If you have time, turn the heat off and let it all sit there for a couple of hours before reheating and going to the next step.
6. Remove bay leaf. Add one tsp of truffle oil. Purree in batches in blender or processor or use an immersion blender until smooth. Season with pepper (unless you used low sodium vegetable broth, it probably doesn't need salt).

7. Add a little more water if its too thick. It should be on the thick side of creamy not the creamy side of thick. Taste and add more truffle oil if you like!

8. While all that is cooking you can make the pistou in your processor (hard to do in a blender). Drop the garlic into the running processor. Scrap down. Add the basil and walnut. Pulse to combine. Add oil and blend until smooth. Salt and pepper to taste.

To Serve:

1. Place a dollop (a Tbsp or so) in the bottom of each deep bowl. Ladle 2 cups of hot soup over top to cover the pistou. Sprinkle with a little fresh thyme if you have any. Serve.
2. Your guest then stir the soup to mix in the pistou.
3. Bread and cheese board on the side.

Toast!

Sluggo Koan

noreply@blogger.com (Richard Russeth) — Sat, 08 Oct 2011 05:48:00 +0000

At one time Nancy asked Master Sluggo, “Does a cartoonist have Buddha Nature or not?” Master Sluggo answered: “No.”

Zen In a Nutshell.

noreply@blogger.com (Richard Russeth) — Mon, 03 Oct 2011 13:17:00 +0000

All you really need to know.

A Matter of Life or Death

noreply@blogger.com (Richard Russeth) — Tue, 20 Sep 2011 03:29:00 +0000

"Do not waste your time by night or day." - from a poem called Sandōkai (參同契) by Sekito Kisen, 700–790, a fundamental text of the Sōtō Zen.

It started with my birthday in May.

A nagging question of life and death. One that I had been put aside for decades. At least put aside from any serious consideration. But the question here at 55 is, once again, the meaning of life, the purpose of life, the what of life, and maybe most importantly, the why. I had the same question in my dorm room at St. Cloud State University way back in 1978. Thirty-four years later the question has much more immediacy than it did then. I am pretty sure I won't live to be 110 years old - Twinkies as a favorite snack will only get you so far after all. So it feels like this line of inquiry is once again open.

And because it is no longer just an academic line of inquiry it has a certain vitality.

We thought death had come for my sister-in-law yesterday. Her lips were blue and her breathing shallow. She lay on the sidewalk, unmoving, while we waited frantically - and you can indeed wait frantically - for the emergency rescue crew to get there, outside the Dave and Busters at the Mall in Columbus, OH on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. We thought she was slipping away...but she didn't. Instead of a heart attack, it was some type of food poisoning that left as fast as it came. Death stopped by to remind us all that life is fleeting.

I need those reminders apparently. Its quite easy to distract myself here in our interconnected age. I do it every day with books and treehouses and The Big Bang Theory. Oh, and work of course. And Facebook. And Twitter. And... it goes on and on. I distract myself from having to think about meaning. And so death. Because I don't know what the meaning of life is...at all and so its much, much easier, and much, much less distressing for me to distract myself. I know that I am supposed to believe that Christ died for my sins and so by that Grace I get to go to heaven. But seriously, that can't be the meaning of life can it[?], because you know God could have skipped this step and just started us all off in heaven. Why this in-between step? Life as God's waiting room doesn't hold my interest much. Life as an airport. We get a layover instead of a direct flight. Why? Cheaper fare? There is a step in here that doesn't have an obvious purpose. A layover without rationale.

What is this life? Who is living it? Why is that "who" living it? Who is that who?

What is this?

-R

How To Be A Poet

noreply@blogger.com (Richard Russeth) — Wed, 13 Apr 2011 05:32:00 +0000

Some people visit graveyards
to make rubbings of the gravestones they find there;
usually those of relatives.
They do this by putting a piece tracing paper on the stone,
then rubbing across it with charcoal or a pencil,
until they’ve reproduced the words of stone.

To be a poet, you need
to hold up a really big
piece of tracing paper to your life,
then rub it and rub it and rub it.
Then tear it up. Then burn
it. Then throw the ashes
into the air. Then watch them settle on the flowers,
the bodies, the blood, the dead,
dreads, red cars, blue lies, the
people you love, the one’s you
hate,
the pies, the cakes,
lust, sweet whiskey,
envy and ivy, cop and carpenter,
grocer and barber,
barista,
Sandinista, the jerk in the next car,
the girl you loved, the pine trees,
the bumble bees, and, at last,
the fast flowing river of spring that
carries them all far
from the sun.
Then, you must gather
the ashes back somehow,
and make pencils of them. Yellow
pencils that, when carefully
sharpened, you can use
to trace your life,
word by slow word.

R.

NaPoWriMo

noreply@blogger.com (Richard Russeth) — Thu, 31 Mar 2011 20:12:00 +0000

Thirty poems, thirty days. April is National Poetry Month and many have accepted the challenge of writing thirty poems in thirty days to celebrate; i.e., NaPoWriMo.

I've created a seperate blog for these and other poems called "open window press" - follow along as I post good, bad and horrible poems throughout April!

Join in the fun - all you need is a pencil and paper!

Witness

noreply@blogger.com (Richard Russeth) — Tue, 29 Mar 2011 02:13:00 +0000

The woman came sobbing
through the clothing store,
vomiting grief into her phone,
pushed through the throng,
and vanished into the afternoon.
But the source of her anguish -
an unexpected death,
harsh words of a lover -
really, we preferred to speculate.
We finished our coffees.
Clerks folded t-shirts.
Traffic waited at the light.

Did she sob on the subway, then
get off at Times Square?
Did only children risk
looking at her?
If only she had collapsed
right then and there,
we might have rushed to her side,
held her hand, and waited
for the ambulance
while people all around us,
clutching the so dearly bought,
hurried on their way
to that place we never share.

.

NaPoWriMo

noreply@blogger.com (Richard Russeth) — Sun, 27 Mar 2011 16:37:00 +0000

30 poems in 30 days. Yes, It's National Poetry Writing Month in celebration of National Poetry Month. Write 30 poems in 30 days. I'll be posting each and every day. Not saying they'll be any good but it will be fun to let go of perfection and just let the Muse rip! Join me!!!

poem for a new year

noreply@blogger.com (Richard Russeth) — Tue, 08 Mar 2011 03:32:00 +0000

the sun has gone into hiding here in ohio.

the rain walks across
the yard carrying snow
down to the flowers
in their cold beds.

the jagged trees, waiting along the road
for their rides, slowly think,
on the cusp of this new year,
that losing their leaves
in october
was a grave mistake.

they remember no springs.

here, inside, it is warm. the family is
gathered. the extravagant meal
has been eaten. the toast to the new year
given.

the past year is in bed,
past caring, accepting the long sleep
ahead. in hindsight, the year
seems both benign and foolish.

we imbued him with
powers. we wished him
to change our lives. his magic,
a desired con.

but the year ends
mostly as it started.
the spells we threw like dice
have won us nothing.

there is no magic after all.

on the cusp of this new year,
i feel a kinship with the trees
who have forgotten spring,
with the flowers in their deathly slumber.

but with the clocks poised to
leap the chasm,
I sense that one day soon
we will be surprised,
they and I;

so very,
very surprised.

A Winter's Day Hike

noreply@blogger.com (Richard Russeth) — Sun, 13 Feb 2011 22:48:00 +0000

The sun talked to me today through my skin.
The pine trees made small talk about spring with each gust of wind.
The snow whispered to me with each step about the fleetingness of winter.
The water laughed playing in the mud.
The rocks were quiet,

but only because they were thinking.

Ten Things For Which I Am Grateful - Week of January 24

noreply@blogger.com (Richard Russeth) — Mon, 24 Jan 2011 11:56:00 +0000

1. Skiing with Nanny, Charlotte, Brad, Justin, Jill, Ethan, Becky and Cassie at Beaver Creek, CO last weekend.

2. The good doctors at Avon Urgent Care in Avon, CO for treating my skiing related concussion so well!

3. Nanny teaching me how to quilt. Someone's getting a Christmas present...if I have the patience.

4. The sheer stupidity of "Jersey Shore".

5. Being able to use email and Facebook to stay in touch. It gets bad press but it really does keep me in touch with friends and family.

6. Kashi Go Lean Crunch Cereal. Its yummy.

7. Our piano. I can't play but I love fooling around on it anyway.

8.The King's Speech. What a film, what a joy.

9. Having Charlotte in my life. She keeps me sane and grounded.

10. Poetry. I understand it less and enjoy it more than I'll admit.

Bonus Round: Andrew and David. My two sons. Individuals both. Smart as whips. Funny and generous souls who make my life better way more than ten ways.

.

poem for a new year

noreply@blogger.com (Richard Russeth) — Fri, 31 Dec 2010 23:28:00 +0000

the sun has gone into hiding here in ohio.

the rain walks across

the yard and carries the snow

down to the flowers

entombed beneath garden beds.

the jagged trees, waiting along the road

for their rides, slowly think,

on the cusp of this new year,

that losing their leaves

in october

was a grave mistake.

they remember no springs.

here, inside, it is warm. the family is

gathered. the extravagant meal

has been eaten. the toast to the new year

given.

the past year is in bed,

past caring, accepting the long sleep

ahead. in hindsight, the year

seems both benign and foolish.

we imbued him with

powers. we wished him

to change our lives. his magic,

a desired con.

but the year ends

mostly as it started.

the spells we threw like dice

have won us nothing.

there is no magic after all.

on the cusp of this new year,

i feel kinship with those trees

who have forgotten spring,

and the flowers gathering snow

into their shallow tombs.

but with the clocks poised to

leap, and the trees reading the braille of the stars,

I sense that one day we will all still be surprised,

they and I,

so very, very surprised.

...

waiting to land

noreply@blogger.com (Richard Russeth) — Sun, 05 Dec 2010 18:44:00 +0000

you know the drill:
the fasten seatbelt light comes on.
the little announcement:
seats up. tables up. electronics off.

the plane tilts slightly and begins its slow fall
to earth.

out the window.
houses slowly become houses.
trees become trees.
you can see people as well as cars.

the plane begins to slow and drop a little faster –
depending on what airport you are arriving at you fly over
highways, strip malls and apartment buildings from the ‘50s.
there’s always a McDonald’s to be seen.

then you are over the runway
and you can see the magic marker streaks
from all the other planes before you,
which is reassuring.

and then there is that moment -
just before you touch down -
when the pilot throttles back
and the plane becomes quiet.
everything hushed,
engines and people.
everyone floats
and everyone waits
for the jolt and the sound of the rubber
meeting the road.

though it’s just seconds,
it always goes on far longer
than seems possible,
as if the earth had suddenly disappeared
from beneath the plane.

that moment, right there.
that hush, that pause,
has filled my entire life.
my whole life, hanging in the air,

waiting to land.

ignition

noreply@blogger.com (Richard Russeth) — Fri, 03 Dec 2010 05:10:00 +0000

poems live

desperate lives so

fleetingly beautiful that you

hope it’s all a lie.

a deception.

a three card Monte.

poems are streetwalkers,

warm tequila,

shills, depression,

sedation, mania,

exhilaration, blood oaths,

rim-shots,

shoplifters and

thieves. they are liars,

but no more dishonest

than you.

they sleep homeless on sidewalks,

shivering, shivering in their

desperate bid for

revelation.

they are the thin

white lines

that your high-beams

suck from the desert darkness ahead

at eighty-five miles an hour.

they are the word

made ink

and paper.

they are the

incandescent

moment

of ignition.

...

Gratitude

noreply@blogger.com (Richard Russeth) — Mon, 29 Nov 2010 22:52:00 +0000

Today I am grateful for:

1) I enjoy reading. Many people don't but I got lucky in the teacher lottery.
2) I can see. This is a bigger deal than most people thing. What a complex activity. And I had cataract surgery fifteen years ago that worked a miracle.
3) I can walk. Do you get how complicated this is. And how many people would love to just be able to walk someplace...
4) I got a new TV. What can I say, I'm grateful for high def.
5) I got to go skiing last Friday at my favorite ski area...A-Basin!

spinning

noreply@blogger.com (Richard Russeth) — Mon, 08 Nov 2010 05:04:00 +0000

today, the sun was an hour hand;

the moon was Monday.
while dusk crept like a tide into our small church,

we remembered the dead by reading the litany of saints;

the dead heard us and smiled.

a siren went by on its way to save someone.

a child set prayer wheels spinning in Katmandu.

an old woman counted the veins on her hands.

we wrote prayers on small pieces of paper with pencil stubs.

streetlights went green. yellow. red.

a nun’s hands sang the rosary in Vatican City.

thousands swirled around the Kaaba in Mecca.

the bread and wine blessed our hands and mouths.

somewhere tequila was drunk.

we read each prayer aloud since the dead can no longer read.

a Sufi spun in mystic trance in Senegal.

in London, the DJs whirled and the crowds surged.

a murder was committed on a blameless victim in New Orleans.

deadheads twirled round and round their universe.

a drug user was found dead by a general’s statue in a park.

we exchanged a sign of peace between ourselves.
buddhist monks felt the dharma wheel turn in san francisco.

the poor are still with us when the service ends.
our prayers wind their way along their paths,
while the world spins quietly through this night.

- r. russeth

wisdomstorms (sophia)

noreply@blogger.com (Richard Russeth) — Wed, 15 Sep 2010 04:43:00 +0000

she never completes her sentences.
never knits your heart entirely or
gets all the bits of glass out.
never ties up loose ends
or says what she means.

she does not.

still you prayed every morning:

“Find me,” you said
“Wait for me,” you whispered.

until one morning,
with the sun behind swirling ochre clouds,
you woke to find her words dangling
before you on spider threads;

with languid voices -
not truth, but not lies either –
they began:

“beyond all doubt,
all those phone calls that ended in a click,
when phones still did, meant something.”

“or when you were a child, in the middle of the night,
a light clicking on under your bedroom door.
a bright flare in the darkness of your parents’
war of attrition.”

“then, much later of course, the anxiety of hell.
the deep darkness that drove you and drove you
and drove you until the doctor gave in
and saved you -
against your will.”

“even the sideways glance,
that brimmed with kindness,
from the stranger next to you
waiting to cross the avenue in the rain.”

“the prayer you wrote during last Sunday’s service,
which could barely be read aloud,
because you barely knew what to write.”

“dancing across broken sunlight with your lover.”

“the rumor you heard from someone you never (ever) trusted
that turned out to be true.”

“the stranger you would see in front of the salvation army,
weeping, in the mornings.”

“the key you found walking lonely in
the seven-eleven at midnight.
the church at dawn. all the streets in between.”

“the key you hid in the junk drawer -
and forgot.”

“the woman you saw day after day at the diner.
an overheard conversation:
“i’ve looked everywhere for you.” the stranger said.
To which, reaching across the table to touch his hand,
she replied simply, “I’ve always been here.”

“the flickering streetlight,
explaining the dream to you.
the one you keep having over and over.
over water. all that water.”

“the cackle of lightening.
your face pressed against the window pane
watching the birds wheel in the gale,
dodging the words crashing down.”

“a footnote you remember to a story you
no longer recall. all the awkward
pauses of your life.

“all the forgotten truths.
the remembered lies.”

“the unraveling of wordless prayers; the ones
you traced over and over on bars until last call
ended your supplications.”

“but then, in time,
a sense of a slow knitting back of things torn.”

“in time, not visions but places. not hope but people.
not gods but angels.

in time, not one but not two either.”

“until one day,
one day you are surprised
to find yourself holding that key.
to find yourself standing, again, in front of a
quite locked door.”

“but this time, this time the key holds sway,
the door retreats from your sharp thrust.
this time you stumble over its threshold,
this time you fall into Her strong arms, sobbing.
this time, at long last,

you are home.”

In Memoriam: Jim & Jo's

noreply@blogger.com (Richard Russeth) — Wed, 01 Sep 2010 02:22:00 +0000

since 1946,
from a trailer hard by the midway,
jim & jo’s
have proudly sold their chili dogs
at the minnesota state fair.

limeade is the only drink served – and is
“made with spring water”.

while the midway has lost its burlesque, its freak show, and even it's fat lady –
jim and jo’s have soldiered on
in a crusade against… bad chili dogs.

this may be more noble than it sounds.

foot longs with everything: chili, cheese, onions.
you may add ketchup and mustard
if you must-
but jim & jo won’t.

in the same way a
London barkeep once refused me a “black and tan”
years ago – “take your bleedin’ tourist ass else-a-where’s.”

there is only condiment proudly offered is Tabasco;
the one and only god worshiped here at jim & jo’s.
one god that has not abandoned us -
that revels in pain as pleasure,
that knows Eve
knew not
and doesn’t care.

Oh Tabasco! you bastard, you
sideshow shill, you huckster extraordinaire,
bless this frank.

Jim, grinning through a fat cloud of foul cigar smoke,
perched in his aluminum rig,
surveys his supplicants,
and, wiping his greasy hands on his pants,
counts all the chili stains
bleeding down our t-shirts

as tithes.

- richard russeth

Urban Servant Corps Charity Dinner

noreply@blogger.com (Richard Russeth) — Fri, 13 Aug 2010 03:28:00 +0000

The executive director of the Urban Servant Corps made the high bid for a dinner with the Russeths in a charity auction to benefit Urban Servant Corps. Here's what we are serving them this Saturday:

APPETIZERS AT THE PORCH SWING

Fruit And Fresh Herb Carafe

(fresh fruit, herbs, vodka and prosecco)

Roasted Peppers Stuffed With Feta

Goat Cheese With Sun-Dried Tomatoes

Country Bread

DINNER IN THE DINING ROOM

Chilled Avocado Soup

Orange Fennel Salad

Arugula Salad With Shaved Parmesan

Lemon Risotto Cakes

Grilled Asparagus with Ladolemono

DESSERT IN THE TREEHOUSE

Creme Brulee

Bellini Sorbet

Hope you bid next year!!

According to a computer analysis...

noreply@blogger.com (Richard Russeth) — Fri, 06 Aug 2010 01:57:00 +0000

I write like
James Joyce

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

chicago cubs

noreply@blogger.com (Richard Russeth) — Thu, 05 Aug 2010 20:18:00 +0000

its hard to talk about faith
without going all hallmark.

keep the faith, have faith, what the faith.
and because its hard, we fall into clichés.
we all know whether we have it
we just can’t explain it.

when i am alone
i dance like a crazy man;
a Rastafarian madman,
and wish i had dreads.
but i always check
to make sure no one is watching –
faith is the opposite of that, i think.

unlocked doors in the middle of the city.
open windows in a thunderstorm.
falling in love, the second time.
corn in the fields.
rain.
laundry hung outdoors.
planting trees.

giving when you are broke.
caring when you hurt.
getting up again.

but in the end, i think
faith is just a chicago cubs fan,

waiting for jesus on the mound.

RQR

raised (luke 7:11–17)

noreply@blogger.com (Richard Russeth) — Sun, 06 Jun 2010 05:17:00 +0000

whenever Jesus raises someone
from the dead in the gospels,
I always wonder what that person did
the next day.

did they quit their job?

were they grateful?
were others jealous?
were they believed?

did they get a haircut,
hug their children,
their lover or their parents?

did they still quarrel with their
neighbors, drink too much,
harbor resentments,
or wish they were
smarter?

did they stop
beating their servants?

did they talk about it -
or was there just no explaining?

did they fear death any longer –
or was the mystery now

only greater?

last pitch

noreply@blogger.com (Richard Russeth) — Wed, 21 Apr 2010 05:07:00 +0000

funny how growing up catholic
(or anything I guess)
you hear the same stories
over and over until you
don’t hear them anymore. maybe
you never heard them, even though you
were right there the whole time.

the nuns were a fairly literal bunch.
when jesus fed the multitudes with
bread and fish from just five loaves
and two fish. that’s just exactly what he did.
a holy concession stand he was,
he never ran out of food
before the last pitch with the runners running.

but now when I read of that vast crowd
on the darkening shores of the Sea of Galilee,
I see jesus looking out over that dusty,
hungry and tired multitude with a gleam in his eye.
I hear him snicker when his disciples
say “send the crowds away we don’t have enough to feed everyone.”

he blesses the bread with his rough hands.
he touches the eyes of the fish and knows the net that caught it.
the disciples gave them to the crowds.
I suppose he sits quietly and watches;
we don’t know if he ate, do we?

but in all the multitude there was not
one person called out by jesus. he did not
tell his disciples “this one, but not her. ”

there must have been widows listening,
a leper or two. a tax collector.
a fool. an atheist.
but no one was turned away.
not even those clever enough to have brought a picnic.
you got bread whether you wanted it or not.
every seeker was found.
every enemy partook.
jesus fed everyone.

no one was turned away.

messengers

noreply@blogger.com (Richard Russeth) — Tue, 13 Apr 2010 21:02:00 +0000

this day is leaden.

a breeze of pine and birdsong
trembles at my open window.
the trees are taut and poised
for a spring that is yet far from here.

the teakettle gurgles its high song
while waiting for me. the old snows are disappearing into earth
and sky; now one thing and then another.

on gray days like this
one wonders about angels, at least I do.
not Gabriel or Michael,
but the unknown legions of others treading lightly.
speaking so softly that only God can hear;
but what can they tell Him that He does not already know?

what did they tell
from Haiti
from beneath the tsunami
from Mardi Gras
parliament, the oval office
or the wildflower cafe when
I added cream to my coffee?

if they are here to tell us something,
if they be messengers, then let them speak
more clearly than the winds,
which at the very least tell me from whence they come.

with angels, we are simply left to wrestle
with their silent witness.
as mute as stars
and just as distant.

if they are now the strangers at my door,
and after inviting them in,
I pour the tea for us,

will they just stare into the distance
sipping slowly, nodding appreciation -

or, when I offer sugar,
will they politely touch my hand,
shrug their shoulders, and,
pulling their cloaks a bit tighter,
turn to whisper urgently to someone

just out of sight?

agape

noreply@blogger.com (Richard Russeth) — Sat, 03 Apr 2010 14:13:00 +0000

it will be a long night
with this feast
of fish, olives, wine and bread;
their sweet aromas are mingling with
the smoke of the flickering candles.

good to sit with my brothers.

jesus, our holy fool,
is on his knees before me
washing my feet, gently.
i do not know why he bothers to
humiliate himself this way.

as usual, he is being
opaque in his words. the wine
makes it yet harder. would that he
would just once say what he means.

parables!

he dries my worn, tired, dirty feet
as if there were nothing more precious.

the meal is amazing. i do not know who
baked this bread, but she must be celebrated.

jesus lectures us on what we must do when he
is gone. he speaks of love.
all i know is we are itinerant preachers, poor as dust, followed
by rabble that wouldn’t know a torah from a sandal.
just why exactly am i this man’s disciple?

down the table i see thomas nodding off.
james and john are arguing about that
damnable pilate. rome did us no favors with
that buffoon.

still, i feel content. but
judas is petulant -
looking like he wants to smack
jesus for those foolish words
of betrayal. the next time i look, he is gone.

and, after that crowing cock crack
from jesus, peter has become sullen
and sits by the fire alone.

the musicians have left. the servants as well.
the dishes will be cleared away tomorrow I guess.

jesus puts his cloak on
and announces we must go to gethsemane.

we grumble. why we have to
go to the garden in the middle of the night,
when decent men should be in their beds,
is anyone’s guess.

outside it is dark and cold
and no one can find judas.