More fresh than Will Smith circa 1990

The farmer's market is absolutely brilliant. I don't know why I never knew about it, because it's year-round every Saturday in Temple Bar (Meetinghouse Square, named after the long-standing Quaker Meeting House there). I circled the entire place six or seven times, bought some coffee (Kenya), a veggie burrito (salsa was good, not believably Mexican though), went to the cash machine, bought more produce (garlic, peppers, parsley, portabellos), natural yogurt with plum compote, organic granola (€7 / kg. -- very cheap), fresh goat's cheese (€2!), and kalamata olive oil (€8 for 75 cl!). Really, my new Saturday ritual. In fact, I'll just try to do all my shopping weekly there.

It feels good getting back into the city when the sun is out and there are people. A huge mix of tourists, immigrants (one cheese stand was speaking Russian, or maybe Polish, while the olive oil girl was probably French), and Dublin natives, just browsing the produce, usually friendly enough. Aside from any environmental issues, farmer's markets are the most social interaction you'll ever get out of grocery shopping, not to mention the health benefits of being surrounded by produce instead of by boxed meals.

That got a bit didactic there. But, then again, I'm cooking my goats cheese and portabello omelet in kalamata olive oil, using organic garlic. And beautiful, beautiful tomatoes.

Update: It was the greatest omelet I have ever had in my life, ever.

You can check out, but I have to clean up

Two roommates are gone to Japan, so visitors stayed at my house four nights this past week. Tuesday, someone from Willamette visiting the Galway kids, Friday, Sheila and Colleen, then Saturday and Sunday, Dylan with a total of five friends--three one night, two others the next. Needless to say, the house and I were in various states of disrepair by the time Fiona came back from Denmark on Monday morning.

Holy Thursday

It's been so long, why apologize. I went to Galway; it was nice; I'm back.

Tonight I was in town to mail a letter (grant acceptance letter) and remembered it's Holy Thursday, so I went to the Quaker meeting house in Temple Bar. Sat in silence for about a half hour, except one time when someone said something. Me, four students from a Quaker college in Iowa (really cool), and two other older Friends. There's something about sitting in silence with a few other people that is just more potent than any structured event.

So, here's a poem for you by Paul Muldoon, on the occasion:

Holy Thursday

They're kindly here, to let us linger so late,
Long after the shutters are up.
A waiter glides from the kitchen with a plate
Of stew or some thick soup,

And settles himself at the next table but one.
We know, you and I, that it's over,
That something or other has come between
Us, whatever we are, or were.

The waiter swabs his plate with bread
And drains what's left of his wine,
Then rearranges, one by one,
The knife, the fork, the spoon, the napkin,
The table itself, the chair he's simply borrowed,
And smiles, and bows to his own absence.

Do you ever get tired of soup? No, I don't.

When I make soup, I make enough for
four people, because I'll probably be
hungry tomorrow. And the day after.
And the day after that.