Polaroids

You were younger than I am now.

I keep forgetting that.

The mind arranges a father

into permanent authority.

But here you are,

thirty-something, in a wide collar,

trousers the color of pistachio ice cream,

plaid belt snug against a narrow waist,

looking less like a patriarch

than a man for whom

the world was still unfolding.

You spanked me with those belts.

I remember their width,

how the leather folded in your hand,

the silence before the sting.

There's Chad on your shoulders,

all limbs and teeth.

There's Julie in your arms,

her cheek against your shoulder.

Here's all seven of us, you and mother,

arranged as pioneers,

my brother and I with cap pistols,

the girls in bonnets and prairie dresses,

you with a long-barrel rifle, grinning

like you already won the war.

You delighted in your children,

as if we were the only evidence you needed

that God exists.

The end times came later.

Doomsday televangelists.

Church and church abandoned

over arguments with the pastor.

A God who punished instead of played.

Kansas City, 1986.

You didn't have tickets.

We sat on the hood

of that green station wagon

outside Royals Stadium

and listened 

to the World Series broadcast.

Every roar from inside

rolled across the parking lot

like distant thunder.

We followed every inning

as if we were sitting behind home plate.

I don't recognize the slender man

swinging a golf club in the front yard,

but he looks like me,

squinting into the sun,

laughing at something off-frame.

I know that laugh.

I've heard it in my throat.

I've heard it watching my daughters

perform Three Stooges skits

at the kitchen table.

For twenty years I was angry at you

for becoming someone

I feared I'd become.

Dad, I don't know

when wonder left you.

I miss the man

who still expected

to be surprised.

I wish my daughters

had met him.

Tuscan White Bean & Sausage Soup

   This soup is built around a simple idea: make something substantial without making it heavy. Italian sausage brings richness, white beans give it body, and crushed red pepper adds just enough heat. Blending a portion of the soup thickens the broth before a little cream rounds it out. The result is rustic, savory, and satisfying.

Serve with warm, crusty bread.

INGREDIENTS 

• 1-pound Italian sausage
• 1 yellow onion (1 ½ cups), diced
• 3 ribs celery, diced
• 2 large carrots, sliced into round and halved
• 5 tsp garlic, minced
• 1 tbsp tomato paste
• 1 tbsp Italian seasoning
• 2 tsp crushed red pepper
• 1 tsp ground black pepper
• 1 tbsp salt
• 4 cups (32 oz) chicken broth
• 2 cans (15.5 oz each) Great Northern bean, drained and rinsed
• 2 cups fresh baby spinach
• ½ cup heavy whipping cream
• Parsley, chopped for garnish
• Salt and Pepper

INSTRUCTIONS:

     1).  In a large Dutch oven over medium-high heat, add sausage.  Cook until the sausage is browned, using a utensil to break up the meat; stir occasionally (about 10-15 minutes).

     2).  Reduce heat to medium.  Add onions, celery, and carrots.  Cook until onions have softened, about 3-5 minutes.  Add garlic and cook for another minute.

     3).  Add tomato paste, Italian seasoning, crushed red pepper, salt and black pepper.  Stir to combine.

     4).  Add chicken broth and white beans.  Bring to a simmer.  Continue to simmer for 7-10 minutes, or until the celery and carrots have softened.

     5).  Use an immersion blender to blend approximately 30% of the soup.  This gives it a thicker, creamier consistency.

     6).  Add heavy cream and spinach.  Continue to cook until the spinach is wilted, about 5 minutes.

SERVES 6 

Eloise Jane 10.0

Ten years ago today, we released Eloise Jane 1.0. 

Version 10.0 comes with graphic novels by the bed, a new interest in lacrosse, sharper wit, and enough confidence to stand her ground against her big sister.  It also features a dramatic redesign:  the long locks are gone, replaced by a pixie cut and the courage to wear it to school.

After Iyla got her braces, Eloise promptly renamed her Iyla "Brace" Lambert ─ some updates need no revision.

Eloise, you're old enough to read these now, so let me leave you with one thought:  never mistake beauty for something waiting in the mirror. It has always been there, in your laughter, your smile, your courage, and your wonderfully original way of seeing the world.

Happy Birthday, Little Miss Eloise.  I love you dearly.

♥️ATX (2003)

It's hot in Austin, Texas.

Tourists huddle indoors

and gripe about the summer heat.

"They're laughing at us," Mary says,

pointing at the Tejanos 

in denim and long sleeves 

laying asphalt.

We are drinking ice-cold beer

in the afternoon 

at Guero's Taco Bar.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

It's weird in Austin, Texas.

Misfits and malcontents 

make their home

in the Lone Star State capital.

"I'm running for Mayor," 

Leslie announces,

hiking her miniskirt to reveal

(MAY)(OR!) 

written in permanent marker

across freckled butt cheeks.

Will Bill offers his legal services 

pro bono.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

It's loud in Austin, Texas.

Live music rattles the cityscape

with a bluesy, honky-tonk vibration.

"Who's playing the Continental?" Victor asks,

reaching for the weekly Chronicle:

        Dale Watson at ten o'clock,

        Tony Price at Saxon Pub,

        Charlie Sexton at Antone's.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Creativity flourishes in Austin, Texas.

Every service industry person

has a side hustle in the arts.

"Read my screenplay?" Hannah asks.

I don't want to read it.

I consent anyway.

Around here, yes 

is a form of currency.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

It's harsh in Austin, Texas.

A hostile climate chases off

the weak and infirm.

Heat scorches lawns,

peels paint,

warps judgement.

"This is Comanche territory," 

Tocho declares.

"Our ancestors suffered raiding parties,

forced slavery, 

pestilence and disease."

Carmen reminds him that most of us

are from somewhere else.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

It's hip in Austin, Texas.

Newcomers flood the city

from all corners of America.

"Hundreds a day!" Sarah laments.

Scaffolds and cranes dot the horizon.

The skyline swells like a fever.

Every season, something iconic

gives way.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

It's home in Austin, Texas.

"The place gets into your blood," 

Eddie says.

He came in 1987

for the inaugural South by Southwest

music festival.

Found his tribe beneath the live oaks.

Never left.

The Colorado river carries our secrets

all the way to the Gulf.

Uncoupled

Because, if you fuck him

in our turn-of-the-century Craftsman bungalow,

under the Egyptian-cotton sheets

where we vowed to hold our sacred bond

       above

       all

       else,

my heart will collapse in despair,

our children will suffer plagues of misfortune,

our families will wail and gnash their teeth,

and all who hold us in esteem

will mourn the loss

of another romantic construct

stripped of its false ornaments.

That is the story I tell myself

of divorce

and its malignant offspring.

It is a harrowing tale,

rooted in the same antiquated sentiment

that compelled us to declare,

       "'Til death do us part."

But I can tell a different story,

perhaps a daring, triumphant one

that breaks this rising tide 

of borrowed myth and bitter prophecy.

In this version, no child is marked by ash,

no curse descends,

the ground does not split open.

I forgive you for breaking rank.

You forgive me for making an altar of us,

then polishing the stones

as the fire went out.

We let the myth keep its martyrs

and learn, instead, the testimony of change,

how love can transform its shape

without vanishing.

Here, grief is not an executioner

but a midwife,

and the child she delivers is not tragedy 

but a second life blinking

in the unfamiliar light.

We release each other back into the species,

leaving the altar unattended,

candles burned to the nub,

flowers gone to seed,

guests returned to their homes.

Vows, once living things,

are honored not for their endurance

but by their honest burial.

Nothing sacred is broken

because nothing sacred is owned,

and we, uncoupled,

are not the ruin foretold,

but two figures in the open air

astonished by how much

sky remains.

**First published in The Nelligan Review

Creamy Mushroom & Cauliflower Soup

  When the temperature drops, you feel it in your bones.  This soup brings the kind of warm comfort that lingers.  A trio of mushrooms, a browned onion, and a whole cauliflower cook down into something velvety and deeply savory, built on structure rather than excess.  The thyme anchors it, the cayenne sharpens it, and the cream brings everything into focus without weighing it down. 

  Finish with warm sourdough and a drizzle of olive oil, and you get a quiet, reliable meal for a cold winter day.

INGREDIENTS 

• 4 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil
• 2 tbsp butter
• 1 (8 oz) yellow onion, diced
• 6 cloves garlic, minced
• 16 oz baby bella mushrooms, roughly chopped
• 8 oz shitake mushrooms, roughly chopped
• 8 oz portobella mushroom caps, cleaned and roughly chopped
• 1 (8 0z) cauliflower head, cut into florets
• 4 oz fresh thyme
• 2 tbsp dried thyme
• 1 tbsp cayenne pepper
• 3 bay leaves
• 2 tbsp Worcestershire sauce
• 1 tbsp soy sauce
• 16 oz vegetable stock
• ½ cup heavy cream
• Sourdough bread
• Salt and Pepper

INSTRUCTIONS:

     1).  In a large pot, heat the butter and olive oil until butter is bubbling.

     2).  Sauté onions for 5-10 min on medium-high heat, until they begin to brown.

     3).  Stir in garlic until fragrant (2 min).

     4).  Add all mushrooms and sauté for 7-10 min, until the mushrooms have released their liquid.

     5).  Season with salt, pepper, dried thyme, and cayenne pepper; stir.

     6).  Add cauliflower, bay leaves, vegetable stock, Worcestershire and soy sauce.

     7).  Bright the pot to a boil, then reduce to a simmer; cover the pot and cook for 30 minutes.

     8).  Taste to adjust any seasonings.

     9).  Remove the pot from the heat source, pour in cream, and season with salt and pepper.  Let cool slightly, then use an immersion blender until smooth and creamy.

     9).  Serve with warm sourdough bread, a drizzle of olive oil and fresh thyme.

SERVES 6-7 

Iyla Grace 13.0

  Iyla Grace 13.0 is live──a teenager!  

  This release celebrates her journey toward young womanhood.  She is now fully immersed in hair, makeup, music, and fashion.  

  My Papa heart yearns for that baby girl who road the handlebars of my bike through East Austin.  Now she wears lip gloss and takes plane flights solo. 

  Still, there is some comfort in braces──those tiny metal parentheses around her smile are a lingering symbol of childhood.  Her sister promptly rebranded her:  Iyla "Brace" Lambert. 

  This version is packed with new delights, talents, and adventures.  I relish every moment, and I love her with all my heart.

  Happy Birthday, Iyla Grace!