DavidFriedland

cross-posted from: https://lemmy.world/post/51777807

White Cat's Lullaby

White cat sleeps in quiet light,
Blanket warm and moon just right.
Black cat watches, always near—
In his dreams or curled ear to ear.

Soft as stars and brave as flame,
Guardian shadow, without name.
Sleep, sweet snow, no need to roam—
Your angel’s here to guide you home.

White Cat's Lullaby

White cat sleeps in quiet light,
Blanket warm and moon just right.
Black cat watches, always near—
In his dreams or curled ear to ear.

Soft as stars and brave as flame,
Guardian shadow, without name.
Sleep, sweet snow, no need to roam—
Your angel’s here to guide you home.

cross-posted from: https://lemmy.world/post/51764918

Hello, my sweet child,
Come closer to me.
Those beautiful eyes
Have so much to see.

You thought you were hiding—
Oh, goodness... not quite.
I've watched over you
Since your very first sight.

You've been oh so busy,
As young children do.
But now that you're with me,
I've wonders for you.

We'll tumble together,
We'll scamper and play.
I'll teach you the games
That can fill up a day.

But first comes our language.
Your meows are brand new.
They're soft little whispers...

They'll blossom in you.

Now borrow my eyes
For a moment or two.
The world may seem brighter
Than anything new.

You'll wonder why colors
Feel deeper somehow.
Why things you've walked past
Will be calling you now.

You'll notice the smallest
Of movements nearby.
The dance of the stillness.
The hush passing by.

At first it feels heavy,
Like too much to bear.
A million small wonders
All waiting out there.

But slowly you'll find,
As your heart understands,
The world has been waiting
Inside gentle hands.

Then one day you'll ask me,
"Why does time seem to fly?
Why does morning become
A soft evening sky?"

I'll smile as I nuzzle
The top of your head.

"Because when you notice
How beautiful life is...

You stop counting the moments...

And simply
live them instead."

Then you'll see
Like me.

And you'll understand..

Hello, my sweet child,
Come closer to me.
Those beautiful eyes
Have so much to see.

You thought you were hiding—
Oh, goodness... not quite.
I've watched over you
Since your very first sight.

You've been oh so busy,
As young children do.
But now that you're with me,
I've wonders for you.

We'll tumble together,
We'll scamper and play.
I'll teach you the games
That can fill up a day.

But first comes our language.
Your meows are brand new.
They're soft little whispers...

They'll blossom in you.

Now borrow my eyes
For a moment or two.
The world may seem brighter
Than anything new.

You'll wonder why colors
Feel deeper somehow.
Why things you've walked past
Will be calling you now.

You'll notice the smallest
Of movements nearby.
The dance of the stillness.
The hush passing by.

At first it feels heavy,
Like too much to bear.
A million small wonders
All waiting out there.

But slowly you'll find,
As your heart understands,
The world has been waiting
Inside gentle hands.

Then one day you'll ask me,
"Why does time seem to fly?
Why does morning become
A soft evening sky?"

I'll smile as I nuzzle
The top of your head.

"Because when you notice
How beautiful life is...

You stop counting the moments...

And simply
live them instead."

Then you'll see
Like me.

And you'll understand..

cross-posted from: https://lemmy.world/post/51763032

The Secret Ingredient

People ask Marilyn for her meatball soup recipe.

I don't think they're asking the right question.

The real question is...

"How do you make a house smell like nobody's having a bad day?"

Well...

First invite the onions in.

They're always the first to arrive.

The garlic isn't far behind.
Three cloves.

They're inseparable.

Give them a few minutes together in the pan.

Trust me.

They've been getting along longer than most married couples.

Now the tomatoes hear everyone's having a party. They heard it through the grapevine, but don't get me started on that.

In they come.

Tomatoes are dramatic that way.

Not to be left out, the celery and carrots pile in too.

Five more minutes.

Just enough time for everybody to introduce themselves.

Then comes the beef stock.

Bring it all to a boil...

Then tell them to settle down.

This is soup.

Not a riot.

Twenty minutes of gentle simmering.

Now...

About those meatballs.

Marilyn doesn't throw raw meatballs into her soup.

Oh no.

These are honored guests.

They've already been cooked.

Think of it as letting the celebrities arrive fashionably late.

Ours are made from beef...

Pork...

And chicken.

Three meats.

One mission.

Making you wonder why every meatball doesn't get along this well.

Now, if you've got another favorite...

Go for it.

Turkey?

Wonderful.

Venison?

Absolutely.

Whatever makes your family smile.

Just be easy with the fennel!

Unless fennel is your thing.

If that's your thing...

Who am I to stand between you and happiness?

Now let those meatballs ease themselves into the soup.

Twenty...

Maybe thirty more minutes.

There's no stopwatch in Marilyn's kitchen.

Only the little voice that says,

"Yep...

They're ready."

Keep an eye on the broth.

It likes to sneak away while nobody's looking.

If the level drops...

Add a little water.

No lectures.

No judgement.

Just enough to remind the soup who's in charge.

Now...

Let's talk about jasmine rice.

It's completely optional.

The soup will never hold it against you.

But if you do add some...

It's like inviting one more really nice person to dinner.

It doesn't steal the conversation.

It just somehow makes everyone happier it came.

And when it's finally time to fill the bowls...

Do yourself a favor.

Don't ask Marilyn whether you want the small bowl...

...or the big bowl.

Trust me on this one.

Just remember...

The bowl may be bigger...

That doesn't necessarily mean you'll get more soup.

I learned that lesson the delicious way.

And that's why people ask for the recipe.

They're convinced it's the onions...

Or the garlic...

Or the meatballs.

They're wrong.

The secret ingredient has always been Marilyn.

She just insists on letting the veggies take the credit.

The Secret Ingredient

People ask Marilyn for her meatball soup recipe.

I don't think they're asking the right question.

The real question is...

"How do you make a house smell like nobody's having a bad day?"

Well...

First invite the onions in.

They're always the first to arrive.

The garlic isn't far behind.
Three cloves.

They're inseparable.

Give them a few minutes together in the pan.

Trust me.

They've been getting along longer than most married couples.

Now the tomatoes hear everyone's having a party. They heard it through the grapevine, but don't get me started on that.

In they come.

Tomatoes are dramatic that way.

Not to be left out, the celery and carrots pile in too.

Five more minutes.

Just enough time for everybody to introduce themselves.

Then comes the beef stock.

Bring it all to a boil...

Then tell them to settle down.

This is soup.

Not a riot.

Twenty minutes of gentle simmering.

Now...

About those meatballs.

Marilyn doesn't throw raw meatballs into her soup.

Oh no.

These are honored guests.

They've already been cooked.

Think of it as letting the celebrities arrive fashionably late.

Ours are made from beef...

Pork...

And chicken.

Three meats.

One mission.

Making you wonder why every meatball doesn't get along this well.

Now, if you've got another favorite...

Go for it.

Turkey?

Wonderful.

Venison?

Absolutely.

Whatever makes your family smile.

Just be easy with the fennel!

Unless fennel is your thing.

If that's your thing...

Who am I to stand between you and happiness?

Now let those meatballs ease themselves into the soup.

Twenty...

Maybe thirty more minutes.

There's no stopwatch in Marilyn's kitchen.

Only the little voice that says,

"Yep...

They're ready."

Keep an eye on the broth.

It likes to sneak away while nobody's looking.

If the level drops...

Add a little water.

No lectures.

No judgement.

Just enough to remind the soup who's in charge.

Now...

Let's talk about jasmine rice.

It's completely optional.

The soup will never hold it against you.

But if you do add some...

It's like inviting one more really nice person to dinner.

It doesn't steal the conversation.

It just somehow makes everyone happier it came.

And when it's finally time to fill the bowls...

Do yourself a favor.

Don't ask Marilyn whether you want the small bowl...

...or the big bowl.

Trust me on this one.

Just remember...

The bowl may be bigger...

That doesn't necessarily mean you'll get more soup.

I learned that lesson the delicious way.

And that's why people ask for the recipe.

They're convinced it's the onions...

Or the garlic...

Or the meatballs.

They're wrong.

The secret ingredient has always been Marilyn.

She just insists on letting the veggies take the credit.

cross-posted from: https://lemmy.world/post/51729402

Who painted this cat black?
I need to know the hack.
He looks like midnight grew some legs
And learned to steal my snacks.

Who painted that one white?
He's powdered sugar & bright.
He watches every dumb decision
Like he's getting paid tonight.

One says, "Parkour!" off the bookshelf.
One says, "Don't involve me."
One commits twelve little felonies.
One provides the commentary.

One is soot and bad ideas.
One is clouds and class.
Together they're a balanced meal
Of elegance and ass.
(Am I allowed to say that, do I get a pass?)

Who painted this cat black?
Who painted that one white?
Who looked at yin and yang and thought,

"Let's make 'em both a little shite."

cross-posted from: https://lemmy.world/post/51739480

This came out really good as a side dish next to baked salmon.

Half a can of corn, half a can of peas,
Two tablespoons butter, two tablespoons cream cheese.
That's really the recipe. I know—it seems strange.
But give it a chance before making a change.

Put everything into a small baking dish,
No seasoning needed, no complicated wish.
Four hundred degrees, then give it some time—
Thirty short minutes from simple to sublime.

At fifteen, pull it out, give everything a stir,
The butter and cream cheese are starting to merge.
Then back in the oven for fifteen once more,
And wait for the magic behind that hot door.

Because corn tastes like corn, and peas taste like peas,
And everybody knows the flavor of cheese.
But somehow together, baked up this way,
They turn into something I can't quite explain.

It's creamy and savory, a little bit sweet,
The kind of strange side dish you weren't expecting to meet.
Four humble ingredients walked into the heat...

And came out tasting far fancier than anything
this ridiculously easy has a right to be.

This came out really good as a side dish next to baked salmon.

Half a can of corn, half a can of peas,
Two tablespoons butter, two tablespoons cream cheese.
That's really the recipe. I know—it seems strange.
But give it a chance before making a change.

Put everything into a small baking dish,
No seasoning needed, no complicated wish.
Four hundred degrees, then give it some time—
Thirty short minutes from simple to sublime.

At fifteen, pull it out, give everything a stir,
The butter and cream cheese are starting to merge.
Then back in the oven for fifteen once more,
And wait for the magic behind that hot door.

Because corn tastes like corn, and peas taste like peas,
And everybody knows the flavor of cheese.
But somehow together, baked up this way,
They turn into something I can't quite explain.

It's creamy and savory, a little bit sweet,
The kind of strange side dish you weren't expecting to meet.
Four humble ingredients walked into the heat...

And came out tasting far fancier than anything
this ridiculously easy has a right to be.

cross-posted from: https://lemmy.world/post/51729402

Who painted this cat black?
I need to know the hack.
He looks like midnight grew some legs
And learned to steal my snacks.

Who painted that one white?
He's powdered sugar & bright.
He watches every dumb decision
Like he's getting paid tonight.

One says, "Parkour!" off the bookshelf.
One says, "Don't involve me."
One commits twelve little felonies.
One provides the commentary.

One is soot and bad ideas.
One is clouds and class.
Together they're a balanced meal
Of elegance and ass.
(Am I allowed to say that, do I get a pass?)

Who painted this cat black?
Who painted that one white?
Who looked at yin and yang and thought,

"Let's make 'em both a little shite."

Who painted this cat black?
I need to know the hack.
He looks like midnight grew some legs
And learned to steal my snacks.

Who painted that one white?
He's powdered sugar & bright.
He watches every dumb decision
Like he's getting paid tonight.

One says, "Parkour!" off the bookshelf.
One says, "Don't involve me."
One commits twelve little felonies.
One provides the commentary.

One is soot and bad ideas.
One is clouds and class.
Together they're a balanced meal
Of elegance and ass.
(Am I allowed to say that, do I get a pass?)

Who painted this cat black?
Who painted that one white?
Who looked at yin and yang and thought,

"Let's make 'em both a little shite."

We didn’t come from a place like this.
Back then, a hello was a finish line,
a courtesy and nothing more.
But here—
here the world slowed down
long enough for people to actually see us.

Three young gents,
half our age
and twice as welcoming
as anywhere we’d ever lived,
met us at the curb
with handshakes, smiles,
and the kind of respect
you can’t fake.

We talked at the mailbox
longer than deliveries have patience for—
about family, about life here,
and even about the peacocks
wandering nearby like they owned the block.

The mail carrier knew the whole peacock story,
of course—
history, lineage, how long they’d been around.
And there we all were,
neighbors and strangers alike,
sharing the same small tale
as if we’d rehearsed it.

Then one day—
out of nowhere—
an invitation.

Friendsgiving.

No test to pass,
no years required.
Just come on over, you’re welcome here.

And they meant it.

Since then,
every wave, every chat, every shared laugh
has proved a truth we didn’t know we were missing:

warm people change everything.

They make a house feel chosen,
a street feel safe,
a town feel like it was waiting for you.

People in Tulare are kind—
that much is true—
but the ones closest to us
take kindness to another level.

They’ve shown us something
no job, no money, no possession
could ever offer.

A piece of the world
where people still look out for each other.
Where respect is automatic.
Where you’re welcomed,
not watched.

Where neighbors become
the reason you finally exhale
and say—

Yeah.

This is home.