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rejectomorph

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Baked [Apr. 22nd, 2012|11:57 pm]
rejectomorph
A few days of spring gave way to a burst of summer. The unprepared trees cast the shadows of bony branches, and the ground dried around the roots of the rose bushes. Had the sourgrass yet bloomed, its flowers would have shrunk from the heat.

I'm going to blame Sierra Nevada Brewery for the premature arrival of the season. Today there was Summerfest lager on the store shelves. No wonder summer came so soon— it had to greet its tasty specialty beer. Of course I bought a six pack. A couple of weeks ago we had winter in April, and now we have summer in April. Who needs to travel when different climes visit one's home so frequently?

This summer will be brief, though. Spring ought to return within a few days, which means I ought to enjoy the first summer beer before it becomes temporarily inappropriate. That means before Wednesday, when there could be rain again. I hope there will be rain, as I chose not to irrigate anything today, and will probably let it go tomorrow as well. There are already enough mosquitoes flying about, without irrigation leaving puddles for them to breed in.

I'm quite sure the insects were celebrating Earth Day. I've never seen so many appear so suddenly as I did this afternoon. The birds must be feasting. I'm just scratching where I got bitten.




Sunday Verse



Ballad Of The Moon, Moon


by Federico García Lorca


The moon came to the forge
with her bustle of spikenards.
The child looks, looks.
The child is looking.
In the trembling air
the moon moves her arms
showing breasts hard as tin,
erotic and pure.
     Fly, moon, moon, moon,
     for if the gypsies come
     they'll make rings
     and white necklaces
     out of your heart
Child, let me dance!
When the gypsies come
they'll find you on the anvil
with your little eyes closed.
     Fly, moon, moon, moon
     because I hear their horses.
Child leave me alone, and don't
touch my starchy whiteness.

The horseman draws near
beating the drum of the plain.
Within the forge the child 
has its eyes closed.

Through the olive groves
come gypsies bronzed and dreamy,
their heads held high
and their eyes half-closed.

How the owl hoots!
How it hoots in the treetops!
Through the sky a moon goes
with a child by the hand.

Within the forge
gypsies weep, crying loudly.
The air veils her, veils her.
The air is veiling her.



—translated by Langston Hughes
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Comments:
[User Picture]From: daisydumont
2012-04-23 02:43 pm (UTC)
We finally got some rain here, had been having fire warnings (not to burn outdoors, as if I ever do). But we also had summer and then suddenly winter. Philly and western MD are getting snow today. I give up. That beer sounds good, btw. What's different about the taste of summerfest?
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[User Picture]From: flying_blind
2012-04-23 09:06 pm (UTC)
Summerfest is a traditional lager, with a richer flavor than the standard American beer has these days. It's probably loaded with calories.

When I was very young— like four or five years old— my dad used to let me taste the foam on his beer, and I would also try to sneak sips when he wasn't looking. He always bought Lucky Lager, an inexpensive regional brand that had a brewery in Azusa, a few miles from where we lived. Summerfest is very close to the flavor of Lucky Lager as it was made in the 1950s.
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[User Picture]From: daisydumont
2012-04-23 09:13 pm (UTC)
I'm trying to think of the local-ish beers of my childhood. Blatz, now there's a charming name for you, and Schlitz. Those sound almost pornographic. Thanks, Milwaukee.

Blatz is Milwaukee's finest beer!
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[User Picture]From: flying_blind
2012-04-23 09:52 pm (UTC)
Blatz and Schlitz, along with some other Milwaukee brews, were national brands, and I remember seeing them on the shelves. In those days we thought of them as imports.

L.A.'s cheapest beer was a vile concoction called Brew 102. Their brewery was in the industrial district on the edge of downtown, and the beer tasted like it might have been made with water from the storm drains spilling into the nearby Los Angeles River.

Schlitz always reminds me of this dirty limerick:
There once was a girl named Anheuser,
who said that no man could surprise her.
But Pabst took a chance,
found the Schlitz in her pants,
and now she is sadder Budweiser.
Still, my favorite beer-related limerick is one somewhat more philosophical in tone:
One day a real man of good cheer
Asked Descartes if he’d like a beer.
What the man got
Was ‘I think not’;
As he watched Descartes disappear.
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[User Picture]From: daisydumont
2012-04-24 06:38 pm (UTC)
Imports! Haha! I like the limericks, too. Sadder Budweiser, indeed. :D
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