Talia's (Jerry) Greek Salad

Talia’s Greek Salad
Ingredients:
Large Finocchio (fennel) bulb with reserved fronds, thin sliced to crescents
large red onion thin sliced to crescents
10 oz jar pitted Castelvetrano olives whole
10 oz jar pitted Greek Kalamata olives whole
2- 14 oz cans baby artichoke hearts
2-  6 oz tubs crumbled feta cheese
1 ½ lounds 80-90 count salad shrimp
4 oz large capers
2 large carrots , peeled, sliced into discs and steamed semi soft
1 yellow bell pepper, diced
1 orange bell pepper, diced
1 large English cucumber, peeled and sliced 1/4 inch slices
2 cups cherry tomatoes ( I used a rainbow menage)

½ cup snipped fennel fronds 

Mix all together in large bowl

serve with dressing below and Braided Challah bread with sesame seeds

My signature Isoelectric dressing
( originated from winemaker Martin Ray via his enologist Dr Edward Wawkiewicz, who swore me to non disclosure until after his death which was 2011) ingredients may be doubled or tripled

12 oz (can) Carnation Evaporated Milk ( NOT sweetened condensed)
12 OZ KRAFT Mayonnaise ( MUST be KRAFT as it alone has proper PH)
1/4 cup fresh squeezed lemon juice
fresh ground pepper (I used Pohnpei peppercorns  from Micronesia)
With mixer on high, mix together milk and Mayo

grind pepper over top to cover surface densely

Mix in well

second pepper grind over top

Mix again

third pepper grind over top

Mix again

With mixer on, drizzle in lemon juice until dressing congeals to creamy consistency
Place in fridge overnight


This dressing is versatile .  It becomes creamy and can be served hot or cold.  It can be infused with herbs (like tarragon, thyme, dill, or cilantro) and can be finished off with Paprika.  It is superb over asparagus , fish or crab and even summer melon. 

-Jerry Wendt July 2019

Recipe is called "Talia's Dressing" as Talia was part of the story I wrote and dedicated to Doris Stanek reading it  July 28th 2019.Talia made the salad in he story and so as she is my dramatic creation ,the salad was actually my real assemblage.

The Fabulous Wallendas

My Fabulous Wallendas

Being much too tired to clean up after my dinner party; I arose the next day to complete the necessary housekeeping chores. On the kitchen tabletop, I noticed the candy dish I always keep full was completely empty.  “They must really have a sweet tooth,” I thought, and went on to dishwashing.  When next I saw the previously invited friends, I jokingly asked them if I was remiss in not feeding them enough at dinner because, after all my food, they still had to raid the candy dish.  One demurred, saying they hadn’t eaten any candy. One admitted to one piece and the third accused the fourth of being the glutton.  I forgot the incident.

One week later; another dinner party.  Several of the same crowd.  Same scenario.  The candy dish was again empty the next day.  This was bothering me.  The next time we gathered I made a point of asking who was hitting my candy dish so hard.  This time one guest was miffed and said she hadn’t eaten any, “but if I didn’t want it eaten, why did I put it out?”  Another denied any indulgence and said maybe I had mice.

“Silly, silly, silly,” I thought, “The table sits in the center of the kitchen. No mouse could reach it from the side countertops. It is on a pedestal, so even if a mouse could climb the leg, it would be unable to climb upside down on the table bottom to get to the top where the dish was. And there were no candy wrappers in evidence.  Only a wrought iron chandelier is situated above the table and there would be no access from that unless the mice were trapeze artists.”  This was a dilemma.
The following week I had no social events at all.  Yet, the candy dish again appeared empty after one night.  “Was I sleep eating?” I questioned myself, “this is really strange.”

In preparation for my next dinner, I pulled the pan drawer under the range open to get out a sauté pan.  I saw a glint as I pulled out the pan and shards of gold were revealed to me.  “What the...,” I exclaimed, immediately recognizing candy wrappers. As I remove more pans and covers, I see the drawer is full of candy wrappers, all torn and shredded.

I have mice!  Not much of a revelation living in an old farm house. They come seeking warmth.  But how are they getting onto the table and then getting the candy out of the dish and dragged across the floor, under the stove, and into that drawer?

I decide that I must have the Wallenda family of mice. The troupe must be swinging on a spider silk rigged trapeze across the table top, swiping up candy and handing it off to another grounded partner.  A veritable nighttime circus.  Of course, spoiler friends reveal mice are capable of climbing upon the side chairs and jumping three feet across to the table.  It’s still a major feat to get that candy out of the dish and down on the floor and quite a distance to drag each piece across the floor to hide it in their under-stove banquet hall. Not to mention they have to do this numerous times to empty that dish. 
I choose instead to regale myself with the visions of my graceful mice in little sequined leotards, swinging and swooping netless in a nighttime extravaganza of circus acrobatics.  My very own Wallenda mice.  However, I am very protective of my candy. The family has had to sacrifice members of the team to my own peanut butter temptation devices. The Wallendas are a big family.  The count stands at 10 and my candy dish remains full.

©Jerry Wendt 2011

Visiting Mona

I was determined but very much fearing the unknown.  It was April 1972, and my first ever trip abroad. Alone.  I had a very ambitious itinerary and much wide eyed anticipation, but, like going off to college years before, there were nagging worries about coping with a very big world out there all by myself. 

I boarded TWA 770 at O’Hare nonstop to London.  This was an auspicious beginning, coddled in first class with Chateaubriand , ice cream sundaes , and alcohol to mollify any trepidations ...until we landed early morning. Then into the hubbub of Heathrow, taxi downtown, and getting situated at the Grosvenor Hotel in Mayfair. Getting my clock reset to a 6 hour time difference, I went to bed, setting off the next morning on my grand adventure.  London Tower, Westminster, St Paul's, Harrods; all had my neck aching from all the gawking, but it  went exceedingly well  exploring the captivating city.

Onward on BEA ( aspic of quail eggs inflight breakfast- UGH ) to Amsterdam where I guested at the famous Amstel Hotel and was guided about the area by Dutch friends of my back home co-worker, Anita.  Spring blooming Keukenhof gardens and Volendam, Rijksmuseum, Chinese food downtown, and making new friends made for another grand adventure there.

Next was Dusseldorf to visit Werner, a friend who was earlier exchange student back  in high school.  Werner was an activist/artist living in the old bombed out district of  town.  It was an artists garret he shared with a Lufthansa stewardess who was also a mountain climber ( Like Mt Everest kind of climber) .  We did a street protest, watched the Apollo 16  lunar landing at a tavern ( where, as American, I was the center of attention to an awed crowd.) Poetry slams in German, new wave music and beers were part of this segment; but mostly it was about a hamster.  Werner had no gas service in this old part of town.  He had a old stove but it was nonoperational and they used it as domicile for girlfriend’s pet hamster.  The hamster was let out to play in the morning and it evidently shat upon my toast when I was distracted. By the next day I was caught in the throes of stomach distress.  But I pushed onward on a short flight to Paris. 

I have no idea how I managed to get myself to the noted Hotel Meurice on Avenue George V, overlooking the Gardens Tuileries.  This 5 star landmark immediately responded to my distress, dispatching the house physician to my suite.  He give me some meds and proscribed two days of bed rest and fluids.  So, my first spring visit to glorious Paris in a grand suite with a balcony overlooking the Louvre and Gardens, was spent lying in a sweat reeking couche and spending a lot of time in the salle de bains. By the third day I was queasy, but much better, ordering some toast and tea.  Being a five star hotel, each floor had a room service kitchen that produced a feast served by two liveried waiters while sitting in my stinking bedclothes.  As sumptuous as it was, my delicate stomach allowed only for the toast and tea.  But I showered , dressed and set out determined to see what I could of this “City of Light” in full springtime bloom in my remaining few days. 

Being so close, I set forth to the Louvre.  A period structure more like a labyrinth than museum, I strolled and marveled- so much beauty, that I had almost become numbed after awhile.  I was about to leave when I turned a corner, and, all alone in a gallery was one painting, inside a bulletproof plastic box with humidity control and surrounded by roped stanchions preventing closer inspection.  Here was “Mona.”  There were surprisingly few people there along with me. 

I was saddened.  This famous icon had but a solitary sentinel in her dark room, alone, with this glorious blossoming city outside.  Yet, she smiled in knowing enigma.  Much, much smaller than I had imagined , her simple countenance was overtaken by this huge ornate frame unbefitting her simple purity.   Maybe it was overwhelming awe, but my memory of that moment recalls thinking of pity; that this famous woman was imprisoned for eternity , unable to let her smile escape to fullness , captured for all time as a frozen object of adoration .  I was transfixed in remorse.  I stood for some moments, until a German tour group boisterously destroyed my mood.  Having no further use for roaming the Louvre (That would wait until my next visit years later,)  I went outside and taxied over to the Eiffel Tower area to roam in the spring color of Champs-de-Mars gardens before a lovely early dinner and show at the Lido de Paris .

Next morning up and hotel limo to DeGaulle for TWA 707  Ambassador service  back to the US. I was still trying to sort out my feelings of  Mona Lisa.  She was not at all what I expected, but she sure  had left a lasting impression.

-Jerry Wendt 2019

Living

We are born to an imperfect world 

with a mind attuned to it.
Age and experience provide tools
to best accommodate    
our allotted time.   

   
Sometimes We arranges flowers in a vase,
placing together blossoms
of varied color and shape
into groupings of aesthetic
disincarnate pleasures.

We also build, combining nuts and bolts,
and steel pounded to shapes of function,
manufactures that are planned
to better facilitate
negotiations with life.

Our experience provides 
envisioning a whole,
trying to fit pieces
placed with minimum effort
and without forcing.

Age gives Us comfort
accepting leftover pieces,
knowing there will always
be better possibilities tomorrow,
with rational hope there will be that tomorrow.

Sometimes We form a poem
Sometimes construct instructional manual.
Sometimes neither.
and, every so often, both.
It is this striving in whatever moment, 
that gives treasured meaning to birth,
and Our  Life beyond existence.

-Jerry Wendt 2019

Humen Online June 2019 Andres Interview

I was celebrating my thirtieth birthday in April, and I was giving myself a Cuban holiday for this beautiful anniversary. There was no escort on the way, so I gave myself to pay for some organized programs. As a good homosexual, one of these events was a hurricane show at Havana. It is usually difficult for me to impress anything, but our guide, Andrés Yunior Gomez - artist Yunitón - succeeded. Not only was his knowledge of the past and present of the Cuban LGBTQ community, but I was also able to get to know a very talented artist. Because Cuba in Hungary is rarely reported in any kind of news, and most people know that they are building communism uninterruptedly in the 21st century, I thought it would be interesting and instructive for us all to learn a little more about this Caribbean country. And of course, after that, if it wasn't Andrés for this help.
(ONE)

How would you describe your homeland to someone who has never been there?

Cuba is a hot, bohemian, snob, eclectic, rich history and culture country that is often underestimated or beloved by socialist tourist paradise. The country is changing, and while the government would direct society in one direction, it would go in the opposite direction.
Cuba stands for joy, music, cocktails, sex, dancing, sweat, knowledge, but most importantly, with happy people. In our blood, we are friendly and cheerful despite all the crises we had to go through. There is always a time for a cup of coffee, an excuse for partying, but at the same time we work hard - even if not the most accurate.
Our sense of humor is the ship that has helped us through so many difficulties. In Cuba, people love, hug and kiss each other, show their emotions. Perhaps the weather may have to do with this.
The future is a big question mark. Cuba is a guest, more and more open, and not cheap. A country where the homeless can read, but sometimes it does not feel like it is in the 21st century, and it is normal if you are not online. Shyness is an unknown concept: people are staring at, asking for unwanted questions. Rum, cocktails, cigars, and the constant music, and dance, is what's going on everywhere.
Man in Cuba is learning patience. Not only the arrivals here, but also the locals. One of our most common sayings is to "calm down and work together."
Cuba, less known to tourists, lives modestly, almost poorly. Gray and green. The poorest Cubans are those who share their last breadcrumbs and even smile even in the toughest times because they believe "hope is the last thing we can lose."
Cuba is bittersweet, interesting, beautiful and deliciously complex. Something else.

(2)

What is the opinion of the Cubans about the LGBTQ community?

Social public opinion has had a major impact on tourism.
Since the Soviet Union collapsed in the early nineties and US sanctions have been tightened, forced prostitution has increasingly proliferated with the onset of a severe crisis. The government, of course, tried to stop it, but it was an impossible business. It was the sexturism that opened many eyes. Hot men, who had been rejected and despised earlier, suddenly became the main keepers of their families for their income. With the flourishing of prostitution, the number of people who have been bisexual has also increased.
Foreign films and sequences that carry the message of acceptance and tolerance have also shaped our thinking. Despite all its contradictions, mainly due to the fact that it is run by a member of the Castro family, the National Center for Sexual Education (El Centro Nacional de Educación Sexual - CENESEX) has done a great deal for LGBTQ rights and overcoming homophobia. The Cuban film industry is also taking part in the same way, although media, especially Cuban television, still lacks a gay presenter or protagonist whose presence would help the community to accept.
Gay men and gay couples who adapt to heteronormatic expectations are more easily accepted and respected. Feminine gays and trans women are more attached to nightlife, but that does not mean that a trans woman who dresses nicely and does not make a makeup will not be accepted in the world of work or in an educational institution or kindergarten - of course there is a chance to lift his head on transphobia.
The media is practically silent about it, the laughing objects of gay characters in television programs - free from sexuality, and if kisses clash between two of the same sex, it is just for the viewer to have fun with it. As a person dealing with communication and writing, I believe that a warm hero would help. Most recently, when gay men appeared on television, it was one of the country's most popular soap operas, where one gay guy ruined a "happy, heterosexual marriage" and infected the husband with HIV. Another was a lesbian woman who came out of the prison freshly. Where are the depictions of those who save lives, help families, live normally and happily in the same way as anyone else?
However, the sight of gay people on the street in everyday life is accepted. Seeing hands-walking couples who even kiss each other without any atrocity, but most of them try to get into the crowd, of course.
This little anecdote might help you better understand how most people think of the LGBTQ community. A few days ago, a taxi driver, with whom I regularly traveled, said: "I have no problem with the gays, but I do not agree to get married. That much transvestite on the street at night is not normal. ”So does the acceptance of gays in Cuba:“ I have nothing to do with them, but… ”
n what spirit did you grow up? Was it difficult to accept and accept yourself by others?
I grew up as a bisexual. It was a decision that I knew was false, but society believed it was difficult to be warm and dangerous because of rejection and sexual infections. So I tried to suppress the gay boy, but as I understand it, I became more and more attracted, even if I forced myself to get to know the girls. It was terribly tiring. It was part of this hiding that I wanted to prove my own masculinity that I was not afraid to surround myself with gay friends. One day, then, I ran to my older and openly warm friend whose words were etched into my memories forever: “You must be sure you really want it. In this country, no matter how good you are in your work, you will always be warm. If you become a doctor, they will not say that you are a good doctor, but that you are warm, but a good doctor. ”
He helped a lot when I found love. I became confident who I dared to stand before and argue with my own righteousness.
When I came to my mother, her first request - which I found terribly funny - was not to dress in women's clothes. Transphobia is very much present in Cuba, even within the warm community. There is a kind of hierarchy in which the transvestites are at the bottom. Their situation is even worse if they are black and poor. Sounds cruel, but racism and elitism mixed with transphobia are a very existing thing.
Although I have never suffered from any of them, I worked in bars and restaurants, walk the streets and see how people live. During the short time I worked at the National Center for Sexual Education, I also experienced a lot, but I also learned, so now I have the right reason to argue with someone. I believe that you can change the image of the LGBTQ community with determination.
My friends were at the age of 19, my first couple at the age of 20. Most of my friends are still heterosexuals today because I believe in the power of integration. I am a proud, openly gay man, but I do not consider myself a classical activist, nor a warm-up - or, as we call here, a warm Congo. But I think I do it in a discreet way for the community. I talk to people, listen to their opinions, fix them, use their language.

(3)

What do you think the next steps for the Cuban LGBTQ community are?

Our community has recently been particularly angry about what is happening recently. Despite the occasional homophobia, the general acceptance of gays has improved a lot, but the government has withdrawn many of its promises. For example, it was promised that same-sex marriage would be included in the new constitution. There is propaganda everywhere to vote for it, and then this part of the text has been removed from the draft text, saying that the Methodist Church insists on a "traditional family" and it would be wrong for the government to accept same-sex marriage, that the majority of citizens are not yet ready for it.
I don't think this is the case. The most popular Cuban films of recent years have been about transvestites and trans people (Viva and Vestido de novia), and one of the most popular films of all time is about the friendship of a gay and a heterosexual guy from 1992 (Fresa y chocolate). In the warm Congo, year after year it can be seen that the masses of heterosexuals stand for equal rights. Of course there will always be people who do not like it, but why not initiate dialogue and strive for peaceful coexistence?
Mariela Castro, Director of CENESEX, did this for the rights of the gays, but the matter is too much politicized when it comes to people. I don't know how much the world knows about how homophobic the Cuban revolution was from the sixties to the nineties. But it seems that every time a member of the Castro family stands up to defend our rights, it is a good opportunity to clean the judgment of the revolution in this direction.
On May 11th, there was an unauthorized pride parade that received a great deal of response in the international press. What is the reason why they had to be organized illegally?
Yes, there was indeed an alternative procession in downtown Havana. It was the reaction of the people that CENESEX, at the request of the Ministry of Health, withdrew the annual gay congress, referring to the political situation. Our politicians fear - or at least say - that an escalating embargo against the Venezuelan government would have counter-revolutionized the original event and used it to propagate their own goals and messages.
Despite all this, the LGBTQ community decided to go for peace. However, a lot of police officers have fled the streets and arrests have been started, as it is forbidden to organize such an event without official permission. Then he was drowned in chaos and violence, which is not surprising because our community is fed up with repression. It is no coincidence that several international media reported the procession as a Cuban Stonewall rebellion.
Unfortunately, I couldn't go to the event because I was accompanied by a tourist group and my employer was very strict, but I was ashamed of the barbaric behavior of the authorities. A friend of mine wrote an SMS in the evening before me so I wouldn't go out anyway, because there will be a parade in the downtown, where there are many tourists who will see how cruel the police treat people. But not only his publicity, but his retribution will be tougher for him. So, thinking back and seeing the entries on Facebook, I feel like a coward for not going, but I just had to work.
Since then, everything is moving in the usual order, but this process has definitely drawn a line in the history of our community. The retaliation was tough, but the state power is proud of it, which only highlights how homophobic it really is. They prove that they "successfully" defended the revolution.
It is set as a counter-revolutionary event on all existing communication channels and in the public media, but it is a joke, as they cannot prove that enemies of socialism have been organized. The truth is that the parade of our parade was an elementary demand for self-expression and the equal demands of our peaceful demands without even a politician falling into his nose. And all this was so long as the police did not exhaust it all into violence.

(4)

Let's run a little more cheerful waters. You mentioned that there are many tourists in the downtown of Havana. What are the places you would definitely recommend to warm guests?

There are some hot bars in the city, but for some business reasons, most other nightclubs also hold a so-called hot day. You have to know that the parties are starting out late after 11 pm. In some places, there is a drag queen show around midnight, which can take up to an hour and then the music and dance start.
If I had to pick up some places, one of them is definitely the Las Vegas bar, one of the few hot bars that are open every day of the week with popular drag shows. It is important to note that they are not allowed in a t-shirt or short-sleeved shirt. Regular vendors are also available to lend to long-sleeved shirts and t-shirts for unprepared visitors. Not exactly the coolest bar, there are a lot of male prostitutes, but if you let go of yourself and grasp enough humor, it can be a very good party.
On Saturday evening, after 11 pm, the National Theater will host El Divino parties. There is also a show here and a much larger dance floor, and the more expensive the entry, the more local people keep it. In fact, there is almost no difference between the two already mentioned places.
Then there are other places like the XY bar or El Mixto, which are also open every day. The King Bar gay friendly, La Esencia on Monday nights, Pazilla Wednesday will hold themed hot parties in the evenings.
It is worth mentioning Mi Cayito in Havana, which is the local hot beach - sometimes there are some interesting things going on in the bushes.

  (5)

How does HIV work with prostitution? What is the current Cuban HIV situation?

In Cuba, if you do not live in a monogamous relationship, your family and friends will regularly warn you: "be careful, the streets are bad." That means that if you are careless and irresponsible, you can catch some sexually transmitted disease very easily. But this, I think, is everywhere in the world.
In my country, HIV is still a huge stigma to this day. Some of my friends, friends who live with HIV, and many of them dare to tell someone they're getting used to, rather than using them to get infected. Some people do not dare to do so because of their relationship, and this also affects their behavior. However, it has to be said that health care is free and that the government is trying to help people living with HIV, in line with its strength. Recently, I read that PreP will soon become available, which is a fantastic thing and we hope that this will reduce the number of newly infected people. Of course, the situation is complicated by the embargo, but we have wonderful doctors we can trust. In this respect, I think we can be exemplary for the whole world.

  (6)

Andrés, please close, tell me a little bit about yourself. What do you do with guided tours, how do you spend your everyday life?

I graduated from community communication. I worked for a while at the Information Center and then at CENESEX, and then, as so many infinitely underpaid graduates, I left the public sector behind myself, and first I was a waiter. Then I cooked at an airbnb hotel and now I work as a full-time tour guide. I've been doing it for four years and I love it. But I also write, paint, and try to put my creations into galleries, which is not easy if you are not at an art school. But I'm patient and I believe it happens for every reason. With my written and painted works, I try to share stories, thoughts about my country, my life and the people I meet. And last but not least, there are things you can't say out loud, but the magic of art can do it.
My story is similar. He is also a career loser, and he was also a waiter, otherwise he would not be able to live anything, so the salaries were so bad. And this is perfectly normal in Cuba. That's why there are so many psychologists, engineers, doctors, journalists, historians who work today as taxi drivers, cooks, waiters, or even security guards.
Sometimes I think about trying life in another country, but only in the short term. I would not be able to leave Cuba permanently behind me. Here my friends live, my parents, my mother is my only son. For the sake of money alone, so that I would function as a cash dispenser for the Hungarians, I would not be willing to go.
Of course, we have our social and economic difficulties, but I feel lucky and have a happy life here. I love and love being surrounded by wonderful and supportive people, I have many reasons to smile. As I mentioned earlier, "Hope is the last thing we can lose."

(7)
Daniel Waliduda

Aunt Freida and The Gulpa Tree

Freida was a despot, a  demon from Hell incarnate. 
She was my aunt, but one we hid from after her cheek
squeezing greetings that left permanent indentation on our faces. After passing her “hrumphing muster,” we would hide until after her swaggering walk in dismissive adieu.

About town Aunt Freida was feared.  She appalled grocery owners, squeezin fruit beyond marketability, calling for the manager whatever she thought things improper, and crashing her cart gleefully into slower moving shoppers , giving them painful rear knee joint contusions.

Freida would take two parking places in handicapped slots. If a parking attendant tried to ticket her, she gave them such a tirade they shrunk from going near her car ever again.
Girl scouts despised Freida.  She called their cookies hockey pucks.  Trick or Treaters hated Freida, with lights off she would’t answer her door even while she was easily seen staring out her window.  The Town Council reviled Freida- Every meeting brought yet another ill-founded  complaint.  Even Freida’s neighbors considered her the most cantankerous argumentative person they had ever known.

For all her encompassing bile, Freida had one love-  Gardening.  Her yard was a splendor of beauty .  Lush flowering plants, exotic trees and manicured shrubs.  Freida kowtowed the Garden Club into awarding her best Gardener every single year.  Her passion for things  horticultural was as unbridled as her vicious personality.  Family rarely visited Freida’s splendor, because she relemtlesly lectured to never stray from narrow path nor touch nothing.  Visits ended with Frieda  serving stale crackers and insipid tea from reused tea bags.

One season, at the big Botannical Garden Show, Freida encountered a booth advertising unique and exotic seeds.  It was fronted by an older Chinese woman.  The wise old woman knew Freida’s  type, and when an intrigued Freida demanded her most precious and scarce item, the woman brought out a carved Cypress box, opening to reveal a single, large, withered-looking seed.  Freida demanded, “And just WHAT is this?” The proprietor told her this was a “most unique” tree called a “Gulpa,” and there were precious few known to the entire world.  Freida just HAD to have that seed, and forthwith paid the exorbitant price asked.  She hurried home  and planted her seed center garden, waiting with great expectations.

Throughout the summer the Gulpa tree grew surprisingly fast.  Strange,  with  gnarly trunk and only two branches with few leaves, it looked prehistoric.  One could not say it was attractive , but then, Freida only saw its singularity.  About August, the tree began to form a very large crowning pod.  Was it a bloom?  A seed pod?  No one knew.  People walking by saw the monstrosity and wondered what Freida was growing.   The pod enlarged to ridiculous proportions, almost causing the tree to lean toward the ground on one side.  Freida could barely wait.  This pod smelled as nasty as rotting garbage.  Freida was insensitive to comments that her “baby” stunk up the neighborhood, but the neighborhood felt that the smell was no worse than having Freida harangue them, and rarely said anything.

Late in the month the pod appeared as though it about to open.  Freida was ecstatic.  She invited everyone to a rare garden party to witness her Gulpa open its mysterious pod.  The curious came.  Hell, the whole town came, vexing Freida almost beyond tolerance as they trampled her Begonias and Delphiniums

Then, the tree pod leaned downward.  The throng Ooohed and ahed.  The opening pod almost pulled the tree over as it neared the ground.  Freida was beside hereself,  sidling up to the straining pod, to assure her prominence in all  pictures.  She placed her hand on the Gulpa pod.  With a sound and smell that all could only characterize as a humungous fart, the pod opened. 

It engulfed Freida, and in one loud glorious and obnoxious “GULP,” swallowed her whole.  Just like that.  Devoured the old bitch.  Silence ensued as the crowd couldn’t decide whether to laugh, cry or applaud.  The fire Department was called, and not even the “Jaws of Life” could pry open that pod, Freida was sealed as though in a tomb.  The State Agriculture Department could find no evidence that any Gulpa Tree existed anywhere, ever . 

A week after the incident, with failed efforts to chainsaw down the resistant tree, its color paled and it began to wilt.  After a monthof  pungent rotting smells permeating the town, finally, the tree fell and began to decompose into the lawn. 
Today, Freida lies in an unmarked grave and the entire town is mute about the incident concerning the Gulpa Tree .              
                                                                                                       - Jerry Wendt 2019

The Gulpa Tree ( From the Chinese  Tūnyàn ) is a composite of The Venus Fly Trap, The Century Plant, The prehistoric  tree Williamsonia, and “Audrey,” beloved lead in the movie “The Little Shop of Horrors.”  While entirely a fictional creation, the current state of genetic engineering makes it an entirely  reasonable, feasible, and fascinating possibility.  If you attend any future botanical events, you would do well  to look at specimen labels from a distance.

Wholly Images from an Edge

 Images from an Edge- Kefalonia
 

Pen in hand, trying to distill images,
diverted from across stone wall,
all encompassing Cerulean ocean,
demarcated by cloudless azure Ionian skies.
Blues  broken by one solitary pale green potted cactus
brought to housewarming three years ago.
Who brings a cactus as housewarming?
Dear Carlos did, transporting himself
and cactus from Portugal on a lark.
Or, better, on a wayward Kittiwake.

Carlos sits oblique to me at a cumbersome old hewn wood table,
molasses poured onto and soaking into a sunbleached canvas chair.
Canopied over dark sunglasses shadowing bushy brows and vamping eyes,
a frayed straw hat cools less than the Moschofilero quaffed all day
ameliorating the blistering Greek sun.
I  surreptitiously spy Carlo’s dick peeking out from the loose leg hole
of his stretched faded pink short shorts.  Studied?
Probably not, given his impetuous nature,
but enigma is reason enough why he, like the cactus , stay welcome-
permanent transplants here to Kefalonia.

Coming from a history of fine Duoro vines, Carlos is also appreciated
for never complaining about our copious Moschofilero.
I must not weave a withholden story
without disclosing Carlos often causes darkened azure skies
to populate with non celestial stars
additions to actual ones I see in furtive glances up
between his shoulders and bushy brows.
Even noctural sea breezes cannot quell that blaze.

Then, there is Talia.  She came with the villa,
lords over our gaggle of straw hats and ubiquitous  sunblock,
and takes prisoners with her ambrosial calamari salad
brought to frequent picnics at Myrtos Beach.
We rhapsodize over her salt baked sea bass that often
punctuates glorious sunsets soaked with still more Moschofilero.
Talia is lore of many island stories.  Her casual beauty and zaftig curves hide any
lines of life’s distress in her face.  Her smile comes easy but veils staunch empowerment.  Talia tempers her timbre with solemn pronouncement,
“There is no ‘why’! It’s because I said so.”

She endears with her ferociously focused Xeri game play
morphing composed woman to a “rape and pillage” 
martinet of startling animation and vocal range
when she is losing, suspects irregularity,
or has suckled without throttle on the Tsipouro Brandy.
Many nights Talia engages the table with her embellished
telling of younger times with randy Greek mariners.
Ears are scorched with her ribald tales.  Lobes are fastened to her tellings
She is my anchor and protector with her gentle love and stern hand.

Talia’s Mother Hyperia still keeps house on the island.
This  independent woman infrequently deigns to visit,
dressed entirely in black in her 17th year in mourning  her late fisherman husband Stavos.
Her visits are eagerly anticipated as she comes attached
to basket filled with Bobota and Dolmakadia.
 Hyperia eschews drinking alcohol, but in finding a full tumbler of Moschofilero
appearing at arms reach, she can orchestrate a stealthy disappearance from her glass.
Up to 9 times !

This sturdy woman is,  for unknown reason, taken to me.  I am greeted with lung exorcizing hugs, and big, nearly toothless smiles.  Carlos, however, gets just a stink eye.  Hyperia sits and stares at him and his every action as  though he was about to steal the flatware. Something akin to her Moschofilero disappearances, this affectation resides in the woman herself.  When happening a visit to the old woman’s cottage, there is nary ever an appearance of a single purloined fork or spoon, so we are at loss as to where the pieces go.  Talia figures she melts them down to spearheads for when Turks ever attack the island.

Hyperia and Talia mostly get caught up talking  in Greek , but quietly.
Her very thunderous operatic tenor voice is reserved to responses in our discussions of religion.
The word “Turkish” seems to elicit a particularly saliva laden response.
But we adjust to Hyperia,  and she is a fixture much as a comfortable sofa ,
noting that sofas have no aptitude for baskets of goodies.

This daily core cadre is sporadically seasoned with mainland friends.
They come and shatter idyll with their chatter on worldly matters,
matters that often bring fanciful evenings to a halt in resolute silence,
a sobriety in gratitude for the  monotony of bliss we marinate in.
We shy from loading up with too many outworldly parcels so difficult to hold and balance.

The resident three disdain feeling threatened.
Salvation is in not existing a time that Carlos nor Talia, nor the Moschofilero and Calamari salad, even dear Mána,  or our immigrant cactus, allows me to sink into a slough of despond.  Nary a regret that I lounge linger here, isolated
and disconnected in Ionian revel, and the comfort of continuity .
Leaving no undarned holes to fall through- this pen leaves you images why.
While Carlos and Talia bid you, Γεια σας από τον παράδεισο
(Hello from paradise)

- Dedicated to Doris "Magnolia" Stanek with love, on her being a cancer survivor at a gathering of our clan July 28,2019

Images from the Edge Inkhole, PinkHole, & Sinkhole

Images from the Edge
  Inkhole, PinkHole, & Sinkhole

Pen in hand, trying to distill images,
diverted from across stone wall,
all encompassing Cerulean ocean,
demarcated by cloudless azure Ionian skies.
Blues  broken by one solitary pale green potted cactus
brought to housewarming three years ago.

Who brings a cactus as housewarming?
Dear Carlos did, transporting himself
and cactus from Portugal on a lark.
Or, better, on a wayward Kittiwake.

Carlos sits oblique to me at a cumbersome old hewn wood table,
molasses poured onto and soaking into a sunbleached canvas chair.
Canopied over dark sunglasses shadowing bushy brows and vamping eyes,
his frayed straw hat cools less than the Moschofilero quaffed all day
ameliorate the blistering Greek sun.

I  surreptitiously spy Carlo’s dick peeking out from the loose leg hole
of his stretched faded pink short shorts.  Studied?
Probably not, given his impetuous nature,
but enigma is reason enough why he, like the cactus ,stay welcome-
permanent transplants here to Kefalonia.

Coming from a history of Duoro vines, Carlos is also appreciated
for never complaining about our copious Moschofilero.
I must not weave a withholden story
without disclosing Carlos often causes darkened azure skies
to populate with non celestial stars added to actual ones
 I see  as furtive glances up between his shoulders and bushy brows.
Even noctural sea breezes cannot quell that blaze.

Then, there is Talia.  She came with the villa,
lords over our gaggle of straw hats and ubiquitous  sunblock
and takes prisoners with her ambrosial calamari salad
brought to frequent picnics at Myrtos Beach.
We rhapsodize over her salt baked sea bass that often
punctuates glorious sunsets soaked with still more Moschofilero.

Talia is lore of many island stories.  Her casual beauty and zaftig curves hide any
lines of life’s distress in her face.  Her smile comes easy but veils  staunch empowerment.  Talia tempers her timbre with solemn pronouncement,
“There is no ‘why’! It’s because I said so.”

She endears with her ferociously focused Xeri game play
morphing composed woman to a “rape and pillage” 
martinet of startling animation and vocal range
when she is losing, suspects irregularity,
or has suckled without throttle on the Tsipouro Brandy.

Many nights Talia engages the table with her embellished
telling of younger times with randy Greek mariners.
Ears are scorched with her ribald tales.
She is my anchor and protector with her gentle love and stern hand.

This daily core cadre is oft seasoned with mainland friends.
They come and shatter idyll with their worldly matters,
matters that often bring fanciful evenings to resolute silence,
our sobriety in gratitude for the  monotony of bliss we marinate in.
We shy from loading up with too many outworldly parcels to hold and balance.
The resident three eschew feeling threatened.

But, there is not a time that Carlos nor Talia, nor the Moschofilero and Calamari salad, or even the immigrant cactus, allow me to sink into a slough of despond.
Nary a regret that I lounge linger here, isolated
and disconnected in Ionian revel, and the comfort of continuity .
Leaving no undarned holes to fall through- this pen leaves you images why.
While Carlos and Talia bid you, Γεια σας από τον παράδεισο
(Hello from paradise)

Celebrate Life

Celebrate Life

a perspective on occasion of Doris Day's 97th birthday, April 3 2019

A small piece of Titanium fell off the left main gear door of Southwest tail number N236WN a 737 700 upon take off  bound for Dallas .  It fell ind bounced on Atlanta Heartsfield Airport Runway 25 L in such a way a flange protruded up in  an angle that the following take off in line, Delta flight# 70, tail  N859NW , a Airbus A330-200 bound for Amsterdam caught it on the right side tire, slashing it and causing such a blowout that the aircraft, already at 90 mph nearing rotation speed, swerved so fast the pilots cound not correct.  Thatplane dipped to the right and the right wind caught the tarmac and the plane flipped over in a roll.  With a full level of fuel, the tank burst and sparks igniting  the plane into a fireball. 
253 onboard 189 survived.  Net loss 64.

April 4, 2017, Syrian Air Force Sukhoi Su-22 fixed-wing aircraft flew above the town of  Khan Sheikhoun in north-western Syria.  At 6:45 a bomb dropped from it exploded on top of a central building emitting a yellow cloud .  Residents waking up breathed the expanding cloud and immediately had respiratory distress.  It was a chemical attack using Sarin , a nerve gas originally developed in Germany in 1938 as a pesticide . A report concluded that the Syrian government had manufactured the Sarin because the process of synthesizing the nerve agent developed by the Syrian Scientific Studies and Research Centre (SSRC) and employed by the Syrian armed forces and security services involved unique use of hexamine as a stabilizer. DIMP was also known as a by-product generated by this process, it added.  This tag was positive identifier that President Bashar al-Assad had ordered this attack on his own people.  630 townspeople were injured .  541 survived .  Net death 89

June 12, 2016 was Latin Night at a Orlando nightclub.  At 2am the club had last call.  Omar Mateen entered and using  SIG Sauer MCX[8] semi-automatic rifle and a 9mm Glock 17 semi-automatic pistol, sprayed  the club with bullets hitting many of the about 320 inside.  102 were wounded with 53 surviving .  Loss that night at the Pulse gay nightclub was 49 lives including Mateen.

On December 26, 2004 a fault between the Burma Plate and the Indian Plate off the cost of sumatra generated a 9.1 magnitide earthquake causing a tsunami in the Indian Ocean.  Residents of Banda Aceh, Indonesia, a city with a population of about 300,000 inhabitants before the tsunami were asleep and had no warning when waves hit the town. The majority of the casualties were in the city. More than 31,000 people wereconfirmed killed in the capital.  In the Indian Ocean basin, the tsuname overall claimed lives of people in 14 countries.  Net loss 227,898 

What is the take away from knowing this mortality tally?   Seemingly, All is chaos, defying order. 

Perhaps if there is an answer it might be in this song ,echoing in my head -

When I was just a little girl
I asked my mother, what will I be
Will I be pretty ?
Will I be rich?
Here's what she said to me
Que será, será
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours to see
Que será, será
What will be, will be

When I grew up and fell in love
I asked my sweetheart, what lies ahead
Will we have rainbows
Day after day?
Here's what my sweetheart said
Que será, será
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours to see
Que será, será
What will be, will be

Now I have children of my own
They ask their mother, what will I be
Will I be handsome?
Will I be rich?
I tell them tenderly
Que será, será
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours to see

Que será, será

What will be, will be
Que será, será.

Happy Birthday Doris

-1956 Columbia Records by Jay Livingston and Ray Evans
Happy Birthday Doris Day April 3 1939, still very much alive

Doris Day popularized the song Que será, será, singing it in the Alfred Hitchcock film “The Man Who Know Too Much” in 1956
-Jerry Wendt  April 3 2019


Note: The aircraft incident is fictional based on a collection from real incidents.
All other incidents are historically and factually true

The Golden Corral Experience 3/22/2019

While only having a limited experience with other all-you-can-eat buffet franchises (twice- both disappointing  ) I came to my invite at a new local Golden Corral for a birthday party with low expectation.  I visualized limited  steam table, insipid ,no flavor selections in a rather unkempt institutional atmosphere.

Very attractive building with plenty of parking

The building being one of the newer Golden Corral’s is very attractive, situated with plenty of parking in a attractive setting. The large structure has a country lodge look to it.  Even on a busy Friday we found handicapped parking right near the entrance.
Entering, I noticed on one side of the building were various wooden tables (4, 6, 8 and 12 tops) with sturdy chairs grouped into wall and partition divided settings, so as to mask the size of the dining area .  It helped make the area seem more friendly than a massive food hall.  Everything appeared attractively neat and clean.  Even with the restaurant size, the noise level made conversations possible.

Add partitions help divide the large area into smaller , more family comfortable settings, while keeping tbles apart for easy conversations

 Additional room divisions break up the large spaces into more "friendly feeling" spaves

The entire other side of the restaurant was the grand buffet,  separated into food type areas, placed in a staggered manner so it didn’t appear at all like a cafeteria line.  The various food stations fronted the kitchens behind.  There were stations for soup, for salad, for grill, for bakery, fresh fruits, for pasta, pizza,  veggies, meats, fish, 4 kinds of shrimp,  for sides , for a chocolate fountain, and for a large dessert area with soft-serve ice creams.  All food was attractively presented with enough space so that there were no lines to speak of.  The only waits I saw were at the grill where orders for burgers and steaks cooked to order took a few minutes.

The Chocolate Fountain

Only a small capture of the dessert area. I could make a home here

A host took us to a designated small group area.  Well lighted, with many windows, with 3, 12 person banquet tables, it was set up for the party with a gift table and bingo items.  We were given flatware packets and our soft drink orders taken and swiftly presented.  From there we  were were free to set off to graze to sample every possible offering we desired.  The garlic  rolls were super.

The restaurant has its own bakery so the baked goods were fresh, extending into the cakes and pies.  Getting ahead of myself I checked out the dessert area.  Pies of apple, blueberry, chocolate cream and cherry surrounded cake stands of carrot cake, chocolate  ganache, cheesecake.  There was also banana pudding, apple cobbler, and bread pudding. I breezed past the jello's and fruit compotes.

I hit the salad bar- in my opinion equal to those I have experienced at Las Vegas hotels .  Extravagant and fresh. Choice of 6 dressings;  2 fat free

While many offerings (over 150) present difficult choices, some highlights for me were the breaded and deep fried okra, home made from scratch meatloaf, steak fries (my weakness and they were tasty), those fluffy garlic rolls, teriyaki grilled salmon, mac- n-cheese, the garlic shrimp scampi  on skewer,   the chocolate fountain with dipped fresh strawberries, pineapple, and melon, cheese pizza, chocolate soft serve on fresh banana pudding and bacon cauliflower.  The unsweeted tea was nice but I would have loved a glass of wine (no alcohol license)

So while I was pleased by the variety that, while not gourmet, was all tasty and attractively presented in  constantly replenished offerings, my fascination was both the quality level and the price that they maintain for this unlimited item meal.

Our table was constantly bussed and our glasses attentively refilled.

I’ll be back to eat at the Golden Corral.  Along with Portillo’s/Bernoli’s, it has been added to favorites

Do You Think

Looking out the window,
outside bombarded by bullets of wet cold snow,
soundtracked of wind,
wolf whistling thru cracks.

Do You think

Of Tony in his gauze thin tent
under viaduct overpass,
wrapped in supermarket plastic,
a caterpillar chrysalis  that will never “become.”


Sudden crack of thunder
startles heart deep to heavy pounding,
rapid thumping that reminds
suddenly of mortality.

Do you think

Of Gianna, a frail child
waiting for a new heart,
pondering  only that another’s death
will provide her new sustaining rhythm of life.


The wind blows dust
obscuring road ahead,
causing cursed slowdown
making a meeting late again.

Do you think

Of Asari and child crossing desert
their life carried packed burden on shoulders.
forging hoards through heat, driven sand ,and  hunger,
leaving all behind to escape a choking tyranny.


In the blind waiting for ducks on the wing
polishing rifles with pals
while relishing hopeful thoughts of a trophy,
and Brandy with tasty  dinner at home.

Do you think

Of 16 year old social outcast Zach
stuck to his gaming screen scoring points for death
thinking about the guns in his closet
and all haters out there deserving to die


A world awhirl in
tempest torn precarious future,
precious values long lost to complacency,
apathy coddled in idle comforts.

Do you think

-Jerry Wendt 2019

Old Man

I keep turning the crank
making the tinny music prevail,
at least sounding somewhat
like a tune is trying to escape.

But sure as shit I think
that thing is going to pop up,
that dingy raggety macabre clown,
and that all will be the end of that.

For now CNN is on
and I keep track of
things beginning with “B”
“Breaking news” keeps my count high.

Diversion helps me veil thinking
about my toes.
I know they haven’t always
been so cold and clammy.

That reminds me I left my car keys
in the fridge yet again,
but that’s just fine
as I have not driven in 4 years.

Even my night light glares now,
but I cannot put the pillow over my head
because it occludes my breathing mask
and I choke myself awake.

My head gets hot in bursts,
I think from taking Tylenol to sleep.
I was told to take Aleve instead,
but that gives me bad dreams about cats.

My wall calendar has big spaces
large enough to tape on
doctors appointment cards
that chronicle my life.

It’s time to pee again.
I would prefer to just lie here and let go,
but then the warmth turns cold and smells
which is worse than just getting up to go.

Maybe there will be some boys
that come by and shovel my walk.
One time I heard one ask, “Who lives here?”
The other said “just some old fag.”

You know, that was O.K.
because it helped assure me
that I was still here,
sort of a validation of being.

So I’m  just cranking  this damn box.
You know they are made in Japan.
Maybe I got a bad (good) one
where no damn clown ever pops up.

I think the lady on CNN
just said news about the world ending
there were no “B” words, so I’m not sure.
Maybe I should pay better attention,

But I can’t stop thinking about my keys in the fridge.

-Jerry Wendt 2019

The Horse of a Different Color

I have been "A HORSE OF A DIFFERENT COLOR"   throughout my life