A Symphony of Food

Summer blessings definitely include the time we spend on the Britt hill in Jacksonville picnicking with dear friends and music lovers. This has become one of my favorite rituals. After five to twenty emails we decide on our menu for an evening, then we all show up with our favorite dishes. We would wear the label of “foodies” proudly. Here are some of the summer dishes:

· Cioppino with clams, mussels, calamari, octopus, crab, shrimp, prawns & Alaska Pollock, over penne pasta

· white bean salad with sun-dried tomato vinaigrette and tri-tip

· Quinoa salad with roasted garlic dressing and chopped veggys

· mango sorbet with blueberry short-cake

· dolmas

· fruit salad

· barbecued pork

Obviously it is all we can do to avoid gaining a pound or two during symphony season. Foremost are the laughs we have as we talk about our week and share a few glasses of very good wine.

Since Chuck and I are now sitting on the handicap pad (Chuck's hearing is so bad that he can miss whole symphony movements if he isn't close) we now sit almost in the front row. Such closeness to the orchestra has involved me in the music unlike any concerts I have ever attended.

I wrote the following poem in an attempt to express how meaningful the experience was for me.

Evening Under The Stars

The chaos of tuning instruments

greets us as we take front seats.

Silence. The baton slices the air,

sforzando brass bellow, blowing

me back against my chair. Yes,

I can feel the orchestra. As the bass

drone menacingly, their strings buzz,

pulling me forward, tickling my ears.

As the bass bounce, viola and flute

sing melody and counter melody;

melodies wed, becoming gigantic

sound puzzles. Tympani

crescendos rock over me.

After the pop of drum, piccolo,

and horns, the violin bows ricochet,

their sweet pulses blending into the stars.

Sound

building, building, until

the music's purity fills my soul,

and my breath becomes a gasp.

There are no individuals here:

we are one with the song.

A pause

commanded by a measured rest.

A pause

filled by crickets singing to the stars.

The final chord

and I hold out my hands to catch the notes.