April Lindner

On the home front, we're babying Ophelia, our sick old Labby girl, giving her all kinds of treats: scrambled eggs for breakfast, spaghetti Bolognese--hold the spaghetti--for dinner.   Since I've got a revision deadline approaching, I dragged the dog beds out to the deck and spent much of the day writing out there with Feefee and her old buddy Reuben.  And now that night has fallen, we're on the porch, camped out by the screen windows, listening to the crickets. As days go, it's been a pretty good one--if not dog heaven, as close as we could manage, given everything.  Thanks to my friend Barbara Crooker for writing this poem on the subject of dog heaven, and for sharing it with me: Retriever If “Heaven is a lovely lake of beer,” as St. Bridget wrote, then dog heaven must be this tub of kibble, where you can push your muzzle all day long without getting bloat or bellyache. Where every toilet seat is raised, at the right level for slurping, an...

Basil from the Lindner-St. Amant garden On the very last day before my school year begins, here's a wistful poem by my friend Barbara Crooker: Late August So already, everything's starting to turn, grackles crocheting their raggedy scarves that trail for miles, snap beans rusting and brown, tomatoes still pulsing yellow stars in the hope that they'll swell round and red before frost shuts down their production lines.  Right now, we can still dry them in the sun, pack them in oil, or slowly roast them with garlic and thyme. But nothing beats this sweetness in August, hot and heavy with juice and seeds.  Slice them in rounds, shuffle with mozzarella, add basil's anise nip, drizzle with the kiss of olio di oliva, a dark splash of balsamic, the sprinkled grit of sea salt.  The circles ring the plate, diminishing O's.  We know the party's almost over, the sun's packing up its bags.  Listen to the crows outside the cold window: gone gone...