for everything

Before I was 21, probably after I turned 12, it became very clear that I did not know how to pray. If attempting a conversational approach, the topics got out of hand. The rosary was too much counting (though it worked well to calm nerves before shooting free-throws). Catholic missals were level 9 without the secret door passing a novice to the family matriarch - no cheating, you had to cross the threshold yourself. And I could not. But poetry feels like praying; it offers the world deep meaning and mystery not detached from the reverence of living. A dear friend who left this world introduced me to ee cummings; the first poem he read at our kitchen table now the scaffold of my eclectic prayer life.

for 37 years tomorrow : : : this is the birth day of life and love and wings

ee cummings

i thank You God for most this amazing day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees and a blue dream of sky;and for everything which is natural which is infinite which is yes (i who have died am alive again today, and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth day of life and love and wings;and of the gay great happening ilimitably earth) how should tasting touching hearing seeing breathing any - lifted from the no of all nothing - human merely being doubt unimaginable You? (now the ears of my ears awake and now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

disassemble me

Get out of the way!

barn's burnt down
now
I can see the moon

- Masahide

i would like to see what i might find

I'm in the sharing mood:
a song for a new banjo and being alive day-to-day.

Bird Song - Wailin' Jennys
I hear a bird chirping up in the sky, I'd like to be free like that, spread my wings so high. I see the river flowing, water running by, I'd like to be that river, see what I might find. I feel the wind a-blowing, slowly changing time, I'd like to be that wind, I'd swirl and shape the sky. I smell the flowers blooming, opening for spring, I'd like to be those flowers, open to everything.

I feel the seasons change: the leaves, the snow and sun. I'd like to be those seasons, made up and undone. I taste the living earth, the seeds that grow within, I'd like to be that earth, a home where life begins. I see the moon a-rising, reaching into night, I'd like to be that moon, a knowing, glowing light. I know the silence as the world begins to wake, I'd like to be that silence as the morning breaks.

I hear a bird chirping up in the sky, I'd like to be free like that, spread my wings so high. I see the river flowing, water running by, I'd like to be that river, see what I might find. I feel the wind a-blowing, slowly changing time, I'd like to be that wind, I'd swirl and shape the sky. I smell the flowers blooming, opening for spring, I'd like to be those flowers, open to everything.

a researcher's manifesto

Pragmatic research – an aspiration articulated by Laurie Ann Vasily in her dissertation “Reading One’s Life” and informed by Davydd Greenwood and Morten Levin

·         Moral – a position that would “reject the imposition of research on other human beings…”, and desire to “promote research methods that enable nonprofessional researchers to enhance their own control over their lives and their social situations” (D. J. Greenwood & Levin, 1998:95).

·         Political – whereby I “believe that research results should be useful for … local partners in gaining increased control over their own situation and that the research questions should be influenced by all parties involved in the research” (D. J. Greenwood & Levin, 1998:95).

·         Methodological – whereby I undertook “shared decision making about methods, collaborative case analysis, and teaching analytical techniques to a group of research partners,” which I believe, “produces superior results in the quality and amount of information gathered and in the depth and quality of analyses made” (D. J. Greenwood & Levin, 1998:95).

·         Theoretical – whereby I believe that “those who face social problems have much of the information and analytical capacity needed to solve them” (D. J. Greenwood & Levin, 1998:95-96).

we weep

A professor suggested we pay attention to what surprises us - therein lies clues to the assumptions that guide our reactions to the world.

I don't want to be surprised that a football coach would call the police to report a crime and risk the fallout for his team whose objective is to get a ball over a line.

I don't want to be surprised that disturbed adults in power do not wield their afflictions on children. 

I don't want to be surprised that a community's reaction to the irrevocable damage of sexual abuse leads to solidarity and 

action to change a corrupt system. 

But if after this week any one of three of these things had happened, 

I would have sadly been surprised.

I'm ashamed to be associated with Penn State based on students' reaction to the abuse inflicted by one man, perpetuated by many more men and women, whose silence created more violence. I am hopeful that my association with Penn State adds one voice to others who mourn the wrong done to these human beings and who work to fundamentally change our culture of violence. May the occurrence of sexual abuse always surprise us, but never quiet our voice and send us into hiding.

According to Daniel Landinsky, the poet Rabia was sold into slavery at a very young age nearly 1200 years ago in present day Iraq. She was sexually abused and wasn't released from bondage until age 50. Still today, she perhaps can speak in a profound way to those in our community who suffer under unwanted touch. Show me where it hurts, God said, and every cell in my body burst into tears before his tender eyes. [p.2 Rabia, Love Poems from God]


Our Beauty - Rabia

Live with dignity, women, live with dignity, men.
Few things will more enhance our
beauty as
much. 



The Hope of Loving - Rabia

What keeps us alive, what allows us to endure?
I think it is the hope of loving,
or being loved.

I heard a fable once about the sun going on a journey
to find its source, and how the moon wept
without her lover's
warm gaze.

We weep when light does not reach our hearts. We wither
like fields if someone close
does not rain their
kindness
upon
us.

as will yours

I'm going to be an A-u-n-t, aunt! My sister and husband will welcome a little human being in May. They are good people who will be marvelous parents.

What wonder to think we love into existence a person who already gives meaning to our waiting hearts.  Humans raising humans creates a world, which Gustavo Gutierrez describes here: “An unjust situation does not happen by chance; it is not something branded by a fatal destiny; there is human responsibility behind it.” And yet, worlds change. A reminder to myself: My parents raised daughters to be women who seek goodness by acting against oppression. Standing with people rather than for people is spiritual. Being in relationship with the world means confronting the individual and social sin of exclusion. And thus, we are called to love and be loved and offer our whole selves to the world. And by doing so we give to that same world its design; as will the daughter or son of my sister and her husband. What wonder.  

Prayer for My Unborn Niece or Nephew -  Ross Gay

Today, November 28th, 2005, in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania,
I am staring at my hands in the common pose
of the hungry and penitent. I am studying again
the emptiness of my clasped hands, wherein I see
my sister-in-law days from birthing
the small thing which will erase,
in some sense, the mystery of my father's departure;
their child will emerge with ten fingers,
and toes, howling, and his mother will hold
his gummy mouth to her breast and the stars
will hang above them and not one bomb
will be heard through that night. And my brother will stir,
waking with his wife the first few days, and he will run
his long fingers along the soft terrain of his child's skull
and not once will he cover the child's ears
or throw the two to the ground and cover them
from the blasts. And this child will gaze
into a night which is black and quiet.
She will pull herself up to her feet
standing like a buoy in wind-grooved waters,
falling, and rising again, never shaken
by an explosion. And her grandmother
will watch her stumble through a park or playground,
will watch her sail through the air on swings,
howling with joy, and never once
will she snatch her from the swing and run
for shelter because again, the bombs are falling.
The two will drink cocoa, the beautiful lines
in my mother's face growing deeper as she smiles
at the beautiful boy flipping the pages of a book
with pictures of dinosaurs, and no bomb
will blast glass into this child's face, leaving
the one eye useless. No bomb will loosen the roof,
crushing my mother while this child sees
plaster and wood and blood where once his Nana sat.
This child will not sit with his Nana, killed by a bomb,
for hours. I will never drive across two states
to help my brother bury my mother this way. To pray
and weep and beg this child to speak again.
She will go to school with other children,
and some of them will have more food than others,
and some will be the witnesses of great crimes,
and some will describe flavors with colors, and some
will have seizures, and some will read two grade
levels ahead, but none of them will tip their desks
and shield their faces, nor watch as their teacher
falls out of her shoes, clinging to the nearest child.
This child will bleed
and cry and curse his living parents
and slam doors and be hurt and hurt again. And she will feel
clover on her bare feet. Will swim in frigid waters.
Will climb trees and spy cardinal chicks blind
and peeping. And no bomb will kill this child's parents.
No bomb will kill this child's grandparents. No bomb
will kill this child's uncles. And no bomb will kill
this child, who will raise to his mouth
some small morsel of food of which there is more
while bombs fall from the sky like dust
brushed from the hands of a stupid god and children
whose parents named them will become dust
and their parents will drape themselves in black
and dream of the tiny mouths which once reared
to suckle or gasp at some bird sailing by
and their tears will make a mud which will heal nothing,
and today I will speak no word
except the name of that child whose absence
makes the hands of her parents shiver. A name
which had a meaning.

As will yours.

                       
                    —for Mikayla Grace

lines inside

This being in relationship is not the imagined string tied to a young girl's finger, tugged by a future mate clutching the other end. If two hearts pull at equal strength, drawing themselves up from the darkness with every intention to travel closer to something encompassing and lasting, what of the beautiful web that the spider weaves in all directions to catch the sun, disappearing eventually in the breeze? 

Is that not love, delicate strands fixed to the wind? 

Sometimes [all the time] the string frays. 

And then we are to weave once more with the silk inside, 
tethering to a locus of tenderness. 

Let me be the web: 

strong as high-grade steel

long enough to encircle a heavenly body

capable of stretching four times my length

tough enough to suspend this heart over the world.

The Journey - 

David Whyte

Above the mountains
the geese turn into
the light again

Painting their
black silhouettes
on an open sky.

Sometimes everything
has to be
inscribed across
the heavens

so you can find
the one line
already written
inside you.

Sometimes it takes
a great sky
to find that

small, bright
and indescribable
wedge of freedom
in your own heart.

Sometimes with
the bones of the black
sticks left when the fire
has gone out

someone has written
something new
in the ashes of your life. 

You are not leaving
you are arriving.

calculate

These things marked on the abacus sliding down hemlock trees between PA ridges today -

0) infinite number of times the dog finds bear droppings to smear over her recently bathed self
0) infinite places to stand in sun - stand under grey skies
0) infinite heart flutters corresponding to water over rocks
0) infinite cravings for burned marshmallows over flames illuminating friends
0) infinite acts of kindness when someone makes their home your resting place
0) infinite ways of counting what it means to make life matter


Zero
Hafiz, translated Daniel Ladinsky

Zero
Is where the Real Fun starts.
There's too much counting
Everywhere else!

this is the world

At the occupy wall street protest weaving down broadway street in nyc, a man encouraged those watching on the sidewalk "Come, join us." It sounded audacious. Join this world - step from there to here. But where is here? And where is there? We are so small, we are so infinite, we are nothing and everything.




Mary Oliver, “October”
1

There’s this shape, black as the entrance to a cave.
A longing wells up in its throat
like a blossom
as it breathes slowly.

What does the world
mean to you if you can’t trust it
to go on shining when you’re

not there? and there’s
a tree, long-fallen; once
the bees flew to it, like a procession
of messengers, and filled it
with honey.

2

I said to the chickadee, singing his heart out in the
green pine tree:

little dazzler
little song,
little mouthful.

3

The shape climbs up out of the curled grass. It
grunts into view. There is no measure
for the confidence at the bottom of its eyes—
there is no telling
the suppleness of its shoulders as it turns
and yawns.
Near the fallen tree
something—a leaf snapped loose
from the branch and fluttering down—tries to pull me
into its trap of attention.

4

It pulls me
into its trap of attention.

And when I turn again, the bear is gone.

5

Look, hasn’t my body already felt
like the body of a flower?

6

Look, I want to love this world
as though it’s the last chance I’m ever going to get
to be alive
and know it.

7

Sometimes in late summer I won’t touch anything, not
the flowers, not the blackberries
brimming in the thickets; I won’t drink
from the pond; I won’t name the birds or the trees;
I won’t whisper my own name.

One morning
the fox came down the hill, glittering and confident,
and didn’t see me—and I thought:

so this is the world.
I’m not in it.
It is beautiful.

see straight through

What if we never knew ourselves, the greatest gift to be transparent like a jellyfish and not assume that the world sees the same stuffing, the same heart, the same soul, the same breaking, the same joyful yelping. But instead, looks at our composition; all of those connective tissues, swirling into patterns that form us again and again, unrecognizable and yet the same. For you who make parts of parts, whole. For you who are windsprints.

Now!

Becoming student is not what I want from school.
Becoming certified, credentialed, scholarly - none of it.
Becoming a seeker of the unfamiliar and infinite, that would be lovely.




Someone should start laughing
Hafiz, translated Daniel Ladinsky
 

I have a thousand brilliant lies
For the question:

How are you?

I have a thousand brilliant lies
For the question:
What is God?

If you think that the Truth
can be known
From words,

If you think that the Sun and the Ocean

Can pass through that tiny opening
Called the mouth,

O someone should start laughing!
Someone should start wildly Laughing --
Now!

Empty Space: Hunger Fast

There's going to be a brief pause in four foodie's lives today. We're putting down the bowl/tortilla/meat/sugar spoon. As former fellows with the Congressional Hunger Center we join Ambassador Tony Hall's HungerFast which calls attention to vulnerable people in our communities and the impact that federal cuts could have on their lives.

The four fasters all love food differently. The range extends from revering funky shaped vegetables grown in native climates to plates carefully stacked with tastes so stunning the server reminds patrons to breathe. Appreciation for real food, food grown to heal the earth, meals shared and celebrated runs deep among us. We consume food, but food also consumes much of our mental, emotional and political lives. Such are our food-lover merits. And so as advocates for social change through a food revolution we want fellow eaters to digest these (not really crazy) radical thoughts:

--Hunger/poor nutrition is a matter of unequal economic distribution, not a lack of production
--Programs that provide food to hungry families should be considered a temporary solution; work that pays everyone enough to eat well is the end to hunger
--Those who earn less should have equal access to choosing nutritious and consciously grown food

--Collectively we have the ability to raise the bar. For our communities to be abundant, the vulnerable deserve more than just unhealthy leftovers and grocery store overstock. They too deserve to thrive.

--In solidarity, we remember today that hunger and poor nutrition impact everything we do, not just our stomach pains: ability to focus in school, stress, attitude, engagement in the community and many other basic functions.

--We are hopeful because this is solvable. Unlike other national and international problems, we have the resources right now to ensure that every person has enough food to eat. It's a matter of where we choose to place it in our national priorities.

--Perhaps we can begin where most, if not all, Americans agree with heart and mind: no child, anywhere in the world, should suffer from a lack of adequate, nutritious food. Let that principle, recognized in religions and moral codes across the world, guide our initial conversations.

Much of America's conception of what food means to someone who is hungry comes packaged in national food drives, local food pantries and donated meals at church halls. Non-profits and religious institutions should be commended for ensuring that when someone is hungry in this country there is an offering of something to eat. Let's assume however that if you are reading this blog then you are an eater who cherishes the opportunity to choose what to eat (and not to eat) and too, enjoys the act of being a subversive/careful eater. This is the essential distinction between the emergency food system and many of the federal programs which provide families the ability to make that essential decision: what to put on their tables. Charity has it's place in meeting immediate food shortages. Acts of justice that change the system where farmworkers can't afford the organic produce they pick is where we need to be. We need to be at a farmer's market where low-income families are provided financial assistance to put crooked-neck squash and viking potatoes in their bags. We need to be at grocery stores where a mother with WIC benefits isn't pushed into the processed food aisle because sugar cereal is cheaper than keifer. We need to be at restaurants that buy the majority of their produce from small farms where labor is paid a living wage and profits stay among those who work the land.

It is not remarkable to forgo three meals.
But the empty space today hopefully will be filled with thought provoking meals beyond our fast.

So that when we eat again we are reminded of how great an act it is to consume food.
It is remarkable that when good food divides us, it can bring us back together again.

what your heart hears

a template of tenderness retold in the sunny kitchen today while I flounder in attempts to persuade mr. wood to sell his truck to someone who could use it (me).

mrs. wood: your father and I shared a moment on the drive home yesterday

ms. wood: oh, really?

mrs. wood: he looked at me, we were riding in the truck sharing silence for some time. "Theresa," he said. At this point I open my heart, knowing he would say he loved me in those waiting words

ms. wood: {internal smile at the ways of this wisened twosome}

mrs. wood: "Theresa, " he said to me. "I really love this truck."

nosing what you want

The first principle of success is desire - knowing what you want. Desire is planting of your seed. -Robert Collier

The range of what any of us desire on the Larga Vista on a daily basis sufficiently qualifies as preposterous. Not speaking for my co-workers, but the force of the universe receiving invocations lifted by snow geese during my morning chores must shrug shoulders, shake postulatory head.

one breath
: : please let there be a 2x4 for this fence to trap the bull calf
: : : good God, why must Punky always get so dirty?
: : : : oh if only I had a sharp knife this world would be grand
: : : : : may all farmers earn a decent living (and vacation time)
: : : : : : thank you for most this amazing day

My dog Chela's desire is pretty clear
: : something delicious come my way

. . and so it does, from the top of a nose to the tip of her tongue


Blog post invocation
:: may all those watching mercifully forgive my first attempt at a video recorded with a phone

orbits

One (interminable) revolution: from there [honduras] to here.
This is a year in lines, absconded from messages to very important people whose gravitational fields cup these tender tides of my heart - head.

Such wonderful moon and sun you are, friend.

3.14.10

Thriving as a farmer, not just surviving is in part why I returned to the US. My personal goal in many seasons ahead is to become a really good grower.

Perhaps this message is premature because I'm still not sure where I'll be digging in the farming revolution.

3.21.10

This past week I visited the farm where I worked 2 years prior; looking at my dirty finger nails, feeling muscles flexed under a shovel, I'm more than ready for farming.

4.20.11

you will see me soon
riding my green dinosaur
license: plant eater

5.19.10

Weeding ridiculously long rows of organic garlic, pounding holes or shoveling manure seems to be my extreme reaction to expectation at some level. All of these activities ground me so literally to the earth and challenge the notion of who I actually am becoming.

8.30.11

There's no sound in the farm house to compete with wings hitting the lamp next to this bed. I can't even muster the 20 feet to shower and yet I know the cow patty layer over my skin needs peeling. The world is too still, clamping skeleton and muscles to its quiet.

How many months and stories are there to retell as manifestations of life that we now live? A list of times where this road seems so short/to go on forever:

1. Today - picking watermelons in the fall sun with farmer friends as 4 year-old Kilian runs in circles around my dog running circles around Kilian who's eaten no less than 5 watermelons in the last hour.

2. Yesterday - driving my car loaded with dirty laundry and a free hour in town, wishing the traffic lights stopped working, a motorcycle taps my window after someone tries to clean it, that I had no car, only my feet and a thumb for jaloning (hitch hiking).

3. Last month - battling weeds, weeds, picking carrots and beets from 1/4 mile rows from irrigated ditches providing water through tractored furloughs.

10.13.10

The darkness keeps me inside these mornings with the almost neurotic dance of looking out the window, going away, coming back. I've moved out of a rented room and find myself house sitting with some chores I can do in a lit barn. But the last few mornings I've created large mud holes for the cows in the dark, thus I wait for nights reprieve. I've been trying out honesty with folks regarding this time of year, however I'm always skeptical that I'm truly busy. Does not all this work come from either my inability to manage it or stop doing it?

12.17.10

I danced in the garlic field, then picking tomatoes, and now with winter I do a jig in pajamas I've worn for ehrr, a few hours (+20).

1.2.11

I've consumed farm work like air, as if my lungs only had capacity for oxygen that I left somewhere on my way back north and manual labor thus keeps me alive. I work at a raw milk dairy full time now and along with the milking, animal husbandry etc. I dedicate much energy to discernment of where to next. Here or somewhere else, always wishing my boots were a bit heavier or lighter.

1.8.11

It's not too cold here - but it's cold. And a storm moving in threatens below 0 temperatures with snow up north and only bitter winds to make my morning milkings in an unheated, partially open barn nicely fit the definition of helado (freezing). For now, a farm cat with fractured paw yawns at my feet and a spoiled dog who doesn't eat concentrado (dry food) but raw meat gnaws on a stuffed animal. My day off writing grad school applications, a community yoga class, grocery shopping at a natural grocers, long afternoon nap and an evening watching football with my dad. Land o'magic transformation nearly complete . . . Now I lean on cows in the morning and watch for their slight shivers as I save their milk and hope not to contaminate the buckets and cause grave illness to our costumers . . . Mexico was a romantic way to package leaving [Honduras], bright colors and vibrant food that twinkled above my head, the wailing inside distracted by pretty things. This month will be my last as a full time dairy woman - the road ahead still unclaimed, yet entrenched in finding stability, being accountable and connected.

1.16.11

I needed to say to someone: one year. No tattoos, no piercings, no mortgage, or motorcycle, no land, no six pack, no sewing machine, no band, no bakery or broken toes. A dog, a car, a smart phone, a yoga class. Haven't been to jail, sleeping in my parent's house.

1.31.11

Hence, the fence wire pulled around my waist as I lean away from the post and to the unseen next one erect beyond weeds, furrows and a grey sky yesterday. A woman in CA told me over mushy pasta that her time traveling requires that she farm to remain grounded, literally. Compared to her, I am a thought-wanderer underachiever. But during days I cling to forking hay, stretching wire, lifting buckets. Otherwise, I float away.

Moon-shined

It's foreseeable that I will always pick basil with a headlamp before a farmer's market. I accept this destiny, hovering above herbs in the moonlight, not hugely willing. Not because it's unpleasant to spend dawn with ocimum basilicum. No, I quite enjoy singing Italian love songs with spot lighting on a captive/planted audience. But darn is it an expensive nocturne. Yes fine, my record actually selling the harvested basil is less than impressive.

This year's plan (after our basil grew like chopsticks with green wings and I sold one bunch in three markets) involved harvesting 500 feet of the plant to make pesto. A friend - lovely lady cradling basil/zinnias - helped defy fate on a foggy morning before work; we drank a cup of tea and filled our bags after sunrise. And oh the pesto we made! I'll leave the recipe to someone else, though I'll say ours was generous on garlic, Romano cheese, roasted almonds and organic extra virgin olive oil.

My sister and her husband are responsible for the delight which featured our chopstick basil many moons later. Their strategy: Kenny's flavorful breakfast sausage stacked on and under great ingredients will convince anyone they should support future (inevitable) moonlight basil excursions.

Goat and Pork Sausage with Pesto Sandwiches

1 pound goat and pork ground sausage, formed into 4 round patties Heritage Ranch
4 focaccia roll, sliced in half
4 tblspoon basil pesto
1/4 pound asiago cheese, sliced long and thin
10-12 crimini mushrooms, sliced
2 tspoon butter

Directions

Saute sliced muchrooms in butter until slightly brown.
Shape ground sausage in desireable patties.
Divide 1 tbspoon of pesto on either side of each focaccia roll.
Layer desired amount of asiago cheese on one side of each focaccia roll.
Heat heavy skillet on medium heat and cook sausage patties for 5-7 minutes, flipping halfway through.
Place pattie on bun, adding mushroom and quickly closing focaccia roll to advantage heat of meat to melt cheese.

This is beamed through the Hearth and Soul blog hop . . .

Found Soup

Deep night in our farm kitchen many months before winter, Kenny slipped layers of spices to the bottom of ball jars. Stacked unevenly, sloping colors and textures mimicked synsedimentary folds carved through canyons. Contents of the jars destined for his handcrafted sausage cause reflection: heritage pigs, organic and locally sourced seasonings are the esteemed Italian sausage below. It's not that Kenny found my (grandfather's) knife frozen in the snow that prompts gushing. [I lost the knife, he found the knife, I'm indebted to the finding of said knife.] But the soup crafted with his sausage is deserving of public attention. This is no favor to Kenny, it's merely hopping along the kindness via Hearth and Soul.

What tempted my guests to lay their entire bodies in this soup, teetering above their bowls on the high ledge of temptation poised to let it all go, was the smooth and bright flavor of the sausage and mature, but sweet squash. These ingredients make the recipe and thus I've included the grower in case you can support their craft.

Italian sausage and butternut squash soup (adapted from Emeril Lagasse)

1 squash, halved with seeds removed (Larga Vista Ranch)
1.5 pound ground Italian sausage (Heritage Ranch)
4 tblspoons butter
2 tblspoons olive oil
1 tsp salt
Ground pepper
6 cloves garlic (Hobbs Family Farm)
1 tblspoon dry sage
1 tblspoon crushed marjoram
6 cups vegetable or chicken stock
1/2 cup plain greek yogurt

Directions

Preheat oven to 400 degrees F.

Coat squash halves with melted butter; season squash with salt and pepper.
Bake until very tender, about 45 minutes.
Remove flesh by scooping away from the peel which is then discarded. Set squash aside.

In a large saucepan over medium-high heat, lightly brown garlic in olive oil adding sausage.
Cook until golden brown, about 4 minutes.
Add the sage and marjoram, and cook, stirring, for 1 minute.
Add the cooked squash and stock, stir well to combine bringing to a boil.
Reduce heat to low, and simmer for 15-20 minutes.

In a food processor or blender, puree soup in batches. Caution: do not process too long, keeping some texture to sausage.
Return to large saucepan.
Add greek yogurt and stir to incorporate evenly throughout soup and adjust seasoning to taste.
Reheat until served.

If you didn't hop above, do it now.
This recipe is shared with the Hearth and Soul hop.