Beitzah and Ham Buns

Last night we went to a Passover Seder at the home of our friends David and Lisa Burchi. Lisa, who is Jewish, prepared the food and led us in the ritual feast. Is there anything that woman can’t do?! Seriously! In addition to all of her full-time lawyering and mothering, she managed to cook up this beautiful meal, and even had collated, stapled copies of the Seder service for our crew of unruly Christians. I felt so honored.

There was one item on the Seder plate that sent me to the web later looking for clarification: the beitzah, or hardboiled egg. Lisa’s Seder handout said that the egg is both a symbol of new life—a no-brainer—and of mourning—how so? The explanation I found on Wikipedia struck me as cyclical and hilarious: the egg is a symbol of mourning in Jewish religious culture because it is the first thing served to mourners after a funeral. (There must be more to it, and I’m going to ask Lisa next time I see her.)

And that sent my mind to memories of the first food served to mourners after a funeral in the Protestant denomination I grew up in, the Christian Reformed Church: ham buns. The Dutch church ladies would serve up platters of these awful little sandwiches, comprised of bland pink ham on those powdery little buns, without the benefit of any interesting condiments like mustard. I’d much rather eat an egg.

the egg and the ham bun
are sad little fraternal twins,
resigned to being
edible ovoid symbols of mourning,
eaten after funerals
though no one remembers why

Spring Break in Laguna

It’s only nine in
The morning but Main Beach is
already dotted
with umbrellas and blankets.
A sandcastle is
in the making. Mothers smear
sunscreen on the backs
of their pale, happy children
in Easter-egg hued
swimsuits. Two college kids—
a girl and a boy
in jeans and sweatshirts—sit on
the steps to the boardwalk, still
nursing cans of Coors Light
and blinking in the bright sun.

Papa Duncan


Today my husband and I flew to Spokane, Washington to attend a memorial service for a dear friend, David Duncan. (The picture above is of his home town of Great Falls, Montana.) “Papa” Duncan, as his grandchildren called him, was an absolute pillar in his community, loved and admired by his large, close-knit family, his business associates, and even his business competitors (one of whom spoke at the memorial). One thing that struck me in particular was that all three of David Duncan’s sons said in the service they had never heard their father say an unkind word about anyone, ever.

The minister leading the service, Paul Tsika, is also a friend. Paul is a fiery, funny preacher with the most amazing accent: Maine and Texas all rolled into one. You really have to hear it to believe it; it’s pretty awesome.

Anyway, Paul opened the service by telling a joke about a car dealership owner who found out that one of his competitors had relocated his business to the other side of town. Being a cordial guy, the car dealer arranged to have flowers and a note sent to congratulate his competitor and wish him well. About the same time, the florist filling the order also received an order for flowers to be sent to a funeral home in town. As the joke goes, the florist mixed up the cards; the car dealer across town got “With deepest sympathy” and the bereaved family got “Congratulations on your new location!”

The thing is, Paul said, David Duncan’s death is not the end, but rather the beginning of a realer, truer life than any of us have experienced or can imagine. So, Papa Duncan, congratulations are in order.
Papa Duncan, love
and honor follow you
to your new location.

Sea

This poem, “Sea,” corresponds to “Canyon,” which I posted a few days ago.

A mottled black seal
resting in the depths. Drifting,
tethered kelp, teeming
with flashes of silver, flares
of orange. Bird Rock.
A pelican, wings grazing
the water. A lone,
faded sailboat. Waves breaking
on the shore. Farther away,
hills notched by a gold canyon.

Chasing the Lotus

David and I were having dinner with friends at a new restaurant in town--Big Fish & Cold Beer--and the surf film Chasing the Lotus came up in conversation. Comprised of previously lost reels of super8 mm film shot by Greg Weaver and Spyder Wills, this documentary is a gem. It's got a groovy soundtrack, beautiful surf footage from places both exotic (Indonesia) and local (our own Oak Street, in the 60s) and narration by Jeff Bridges, the Dude himself. Yes, the word "consciousness" is used a few times too many, but, hey, it's kind of a period piece. I have to watch it again.

Out of the mud, grows
the lotus. Lost reels reveal
green walls, perfect peaks.

Wild Kingdom


My parents amaze me. They went on some madcap snorkel boat adventure while vacationing in Mexico, and were almost crying with laughter telling me about how Dad got bit by a sea lion! Thank God he's ok (Dad, I mean) and finds this funny.

Alarming but true:
my parents go to Cabo,
sea lion bites Dad.