Illustration by Czech painter Artuš Scheiner 

Mom's not here

or I would call,

and  together we would laugh 

about the day, Liam's goofy hat,

and the mistake of the Collard Quiche.

I should have given the farmer

his credit when credit was due. 

(Who said something like that?) 

Last night the farmer asked,

"Would you like a Broadleaf Spinach salad?"

I  barely glanced his way, declined and

happily downed a good Saturday beer.

I knew I'd have another. 

Today it's raining.

I love the backdrop of

our fallen grey sky.

I love the smattering

on the roof.

I love the chimes keeping time

and the good fire burning. 

Perfect reading weather. 

I read some dust, and

I read some somber posts.

I visited favorites. 

Shiue's always sharing

her inspiring recipes,

recipes I'd like in an E-book.

When thoughts turned toward cooking,

 I decidedly perused 

five items in the drawer and 

knew I 'd make a quiche!

This is not a poem.

This is not a lament.

I simply pulled, washed,

and chopped

spring collards by mistake.

The kitchen simmered

with the aroma of onions, mushrooms

and minced garlic, and the 

counter spread with rolling dough.

I grated generously a medium

blend of cheese

 and freshly chopped new greens.

 All's well that ends well in the oven.  

Shakespeare did not say that, but he did write

a  play with most of those words in the title.

I'm glad I'm not a virgin.

And the quiche?  The farmer asked me

if I thought the collards would be tender.

"Collards?"  I gasped.

" Bite your thumb! I made a spinach quiche."

He slid a slight grin as he is not prone to many words.

Cliché as it sounds and writes,

I knew he had me pegged when he

raised his glass and said,

"This calls for a good Merlot."

Cheers on a good Sunday.