10 chicken breast filets
split a pounded
in a food processer add.....
2 chicken livers steamed
1/2 cup of mushrooms
1/4 c wilted arugula(chopped)
1/2 t nutmeg
11/2 c of ground chicken
1/4 cup of heavy cream
1/4 c of crumbed bacon
4 Tablespoons capers
1/2 cup of cream cheese
1/4 cup of fresh parsley
3 crushed garlic cloves
3 tablespoons of grated parmesan
2 tablespoons of conage
1 teaspoon of cayeene peper
1/2 t of fish stock
1 t lemon juice
mix smooth....................................
spread creamed mixture over chicken breast
layer 2 slices of procuttio
roll breast
coat with seasoned flour
(in a blender combine)
1/4 c corn flakes, 1/2 c seasoned bread crumbs)
add to
2 cups of flour
3 T salt
3 T cayenne pepper
paprika
black pepper
onion powder
garlic powder
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
2 cups of panko bread crumbs
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
olive oil for frying
bake for 25 minute on 350 use a thermometer
Serve with
smashed potatoes
and smashed brussel sprouts
and honey-buttered corn
dessert
almond rasberry tart
with pastry cream and vanilla ice cream
with white chocale shavings
We always ate salad when I was a kid,
With lettuce and carrots and cukes
And also tomatoes and olives at times
But today, that would bring some rebukes.
For the lettuce was iceberg, which I never buy,
Though we didn’t have choices back then
Or perhaps that’s the kind that my mother preferred,
So she bought it again and again.
I now buy arugula, sometimes romaine
Or a mixture of various kinds
Of colorful lettuces, common today,
Just like spinach, as grocery finds.
I still add tomatoes and carrots and, too,
Things like peppers and sugar snap peas,
But the lettuce will never be iceberg because
My mother’s not here to appease.
If you're reading this, honey
it means the diner is burning,
It's not a typo or a misprint,
but a message:
Witches are wisdom-embedded
women who have seen worse things
than the business end of a newt's behind
I once made a man cry with desire
on a whim by telling him who he was
at twenty-five, I hadn't yet realized
it's really just a trick of language
to be specific
pick the bits of a person, hanging
like snagged teeth on stems
of last night's arugula
reading their cards like tarot on credit
serve the assessment of them
with a side of sugar they'll call it magic,
make you marry if you're good at it—knowing
when to grind the spices is the icing
sin of men or Saigon cinnamon no matter
witches as women, as wisdom get better
in time, in the garden, in the kitchen
slow-cooking rhymes that melt men's masks
over jasmine rice, like loose meat
so the young girls feeding at our hems
can remember the recipe
after Charles Bukowski
No bird lives
in my heart. An
inhospitable place, flooding
every morning
with curious
blue blood.
The bird I know
lives
in the park or,
the zoo, or maybe
the splintered telephone poles
on Cherokee.
He does worry after
me, though. I can
hear him, his corvid
questions, “when
are you quitting cigarettes? when
are you making that
cranberry
and arugula salad?
did you have that
dream again?”
I used to worry after
him, too. Human
questions like, “where
do you go in
freezing
rains? did you ever
know your
grandfather?
have you ever been sad?
But,
today I saw him pull
an apple slice
from a torn,
plastic bag. Now
I know he’s never
shed
a tear in his life.
Just like he knows
that I’ll never eat
cranberry
and arugula salad.
We lock eyes in
the park. My heart
pumps blood. Then—
again.
Lettuce pray
for I can eat no lettuce today.
No Cos, no Iceberg, no Loose leaf.
Arugula and
Kale are beyond the pale
for alas a procedure looms
while fresh edibles are all in bloom.
It's Spring and not a green thing to eat,
what a bother
soon no red things neither.
For lunch I will munch
on the written word
compose a thing absurd
perhaps be lured
to pen a salad ballad.
Tender sliced beef sauteed lightly
Wrapped in Gyro Bread
Arugula bitter bite
Horseradish sauce covered
Sauteed onions dressed
Treat!
My inspiration:"Taste Of Summer" By Brian Strand
He nods towards a table between the hibiscus
and other flowering plants,
a bit more removed from the racket of passing cars,
the tiny music of forks tapping porcelain dinner plates.
Her eyes spy artwork for sale
hung across mustard-colored walls.
He wants Amore: flatbread
covered with baby spinach,
sliced tomatoes,
melted feta and provolone.
She searches for something more exotic:
can almost taste the tumbling of arugula
and gorgonzola dripped in a vinaigrette
of pear and thyme. Or perhaps
the portobello lasagna,
its cream sauce surrounding
layers of spinach and mozzarella
to go with a glass of good white wine.
But he insists on the flatbread
and places her menu aside,
doesn't catch the shrug
or her wandering eyes.
Tab plus tip: $31.95. Or a bargain
for pride—unaware the real cost
of ordering the pizza was her
disinterested sigh.