Mango. Brie. Cilantro. Green onion.

Mango. Brie. Cilantro. Green onion., originally uploaded by devin.katie.

Mango. Brie. Cilantro. Green onion. 2, originally uploaded by devin.katie.

Mango. Brie. Cilantro. Green onions. 3, originally uploaded by devin.katie.

Place half a pita bread (or a tortilla) on a griddle, over medium high heat. Layer thinly sliced mango, brie cheese, cilantro, and green onions. Cover with the other half of the pita bread and cook on both sides till the cheese is melted.

One of my favorites.

To an Athlete Dying Young

The time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the market-place;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder-high.

To-day, the road all runners come,
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.

Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields were glory does not stay
And early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than the rose.

Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,
And silence sounds no worse than cheers
After earth has stopped the ears:

Now you will not swell the rout
Of lads that wore their honours out,
Runners whom renown outran
And the name died before the man.

So set, before its echoes fade,
The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
And hold to the low lintel up
The still-defended challenge-cup.

And round that early-laurelled head
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
And find unwithered on its curls
The garland briefer than a girl’s.

A.E. Housman

One….two….three…

…..sometimes, after I’ve been babysitting for a few hours, I suggest playing Hide and Seek.

The beauty of Hide and Seek at this particular time is the little bit of peace and quiet it affords.

Instead of counting to ten…I count to 100.

Then, after someone complained, I walk slowly when seeking.

It’s the simple joys.

Details

A chortle found

Desires

Each a silky laugh

Delicious

But not soft

–

In the end

Life is love’s greatest

Surprise

The Passionate Pilgrim

XVII.

On a day, alack the day!
Love, whose month was ever May,
Spied a blossom passing fair,
Playing in the wanton air:
Through the velvet leaves the wind
All unseen, gan passage find;
That the lover, sick to death,
Wish’d himself the heaven’s breath,
‘Air,’ quoth he, ‘thy cheeks may blow;
Air, would I might triumph so!
But, alas! my hand hath sworn
Ne’er to pluck thee from thy thorn:
Vow, alack! for youth unmeet:
Youth, so apt to pluck a sweet.
Thou for whom Jove would swear
Juno but an Ethiope were;
And deny himself for Jove,
Turning mortal for thy love.’

William Shakespeare