In honor of Edgar Allen Poe's birthday (and my friend Amanda's)

I killed a spider in my bathroom five days ago, and I have not yet found the nerve to dispose of it.  The first day it was to make sure it was dead.  The second was to be extra sure.  The third was to be absolutely Washingtonian about it.  The fourth was to let him be a lesson to all his friends.  And the fifth (today) is because I just plain don't want to get near it. 

Instead, I am going to focus on celebrating Mr. Poe's birthday, which my friend Amanda-from-New-York also shares.  Bet you've never heard this one:

"Alone"

From childhood’s hour I have not been

As others were—I have not seen

As others saw—I could not bring

My passions from a common spring—

From the same source I have not taken

My sorrow—I could not awaken

My heart to joy at the same tone—

And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—

Then—in my childhood—in the dawn

Of a most stormy life—was drawn

From ev’ry depth of good and ill

The mystery which binds me still—

From the torrent, or the fountain—

From the red cliff of the mountain—

From the sun that ’round me roll’d

In its autumn tint of gold—

From the lightning in the sky

As it pass’d me flying by—

From the thunder, and the storm—

And the cloud that took the form

(When the rest of Heaven was blue)

Of a demon in my view—

Rich man's problem

Somehow I have amassed a collection of aprons.  I say "somehow" because it is not something I ever thought of doing.  It just happened.  A couple of years ago my roommates and some friends of ours decided to do our very own version of Top Chef, except it was more like Iron Chef and The Next Food Network Star all rolled into one.  We called it Next Top Iron Chef.  There were two teams of two and I was the sous chef on my team.  My chef friend and I took it very seriously.  The secret ingredient was egg, and my team won.  During the competition my chef friend had let me borrow one of her aprons so we could look all business.  When it was over she let me keep it.  This is what it looks like:

Simple, straight-forward, practical.  I used this apron consistently when I made dinner, especially after coming home from work so I wouldn't mess up my clothes.  Over the course of the next year, my friend who had given me that apron moved to New York.  I was sad to see her go because she is awesome and I missed her.  On my birthday, she surprised me by sending me a new apron.  What?! I was so excited to have such a wealth of aprons.  This one had a little more pizzazz:

I tended to gravitate more to it for cooking and the other for baking.  I didn't want to get flour all over my new apron.  Then on my birthday this year, a different friend gave me a brand new home-sewn apron that was a little more girly and frilly than the others.  It's so pretty!  I couldn't believe my good luck.  I wear it when cooking for guests:

But now, my dear friend Angela has upped the ante.  She embroidered me an apron that is so darling that frankly I don't know what to do with it.  I'm actually afraid to use it.  It's dainty and reminds me of those old-fashioned pinafores that women used to wear.  I hate the thought of getting grease or chocolate all over it (don't you want to know what I'm cooking).  I even had trouble figuring out the best way to photograph it in order to do it justice.  I'm still not sure I did:

My apartment is from the 1920s, so there's an old ironing board built into the wall in the kitchen.  I thought it would be a nice match for the apron.  Now I just need to figure out the perfect occasion to wear it (the apron, not the ironing board).

Why I Am Not a Painter

-Frank O'Hara

I am not a painter, I am a poet.

Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,

for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.

But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.