BEFORE ALICE FELL DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE – A PREQUEL INTO WONDERLAND

Note: Long before Alice fell down the rabbit hole, Wonderland was there.  A prequel to the prequel, to see what the walrus said.

“To see? Don’t you mean to hear?”

Who is telling this story?

“I’m sorry. Go on!”

“I’m quite sane,” said the hatter to the gathered crowd, “Though I might be mad! Quite mad!” he giggled in delight.

He was, I was assured, possibly the last sane man in the land.

But what did I know though.

I was just a simple turtle, a baker by trade.

“Off with his head!” a little girl with large hair screamed from the crowd.

They may have agreed if not for cooler heads, mostly a walrus and a rabbit.

“He should be exiled!” the rabbit said, hopping madly around.

“Exiled!” said the walrus to the king who agreed by a nod of his head.

“To the swamp!!” the crowd cheered out.

The swamp, an evil place,where madness is quite the normal thing, up is down, in is out, reality isn’t real.

I had been there, my birth place, if I was born.

I do not remember.

I was quite young.

“To the swamp!” the crowd cheered again, grabbing the man and hefting him to their shoulders.

And they went, disappearing over the horizon.

I decided to go back to work, baking a cake, for the princess.

“A mighty birthday cake!” she said, snottily, as her father, the king ordered it. “Off with his head!!”

I cringed.

I tried to make it mighty.

It look mighty where I stood.

“What a tiny puny cake!” the king said as he entered. “What else could we expect from a turtle?”

“Off with his head!” the princess kept saying, waving a flamingo around by its legs and hit me out the door into the gathered crowd.

“Off with his head!!” the crowd parroted. I cringed.

I pulled myself into my shell and felt another whack from the angered princess.

I flew for what felt like a hundred miles.

Or maybe it was ten feet.

I landed with a thud and rolled out of sight, into the mighty hedges, where the hedgehogs stayed.

“Keep quiet! Keep quiet!! She cannot find us!!” a small hedgehog said from under a spire of twigs and leaves.

“Off with his head!!!” the princess was heard screaming. “Where did he go? OFF WITH HIS HEAD!!!”

The crowd searched and searched but finally, the sunlight disappearing.

I fell asleep under a trunk of a bush, nuzzled inside my shell.

The next day, the hedgehogs sneaked me out of the land, into the swamp.

“The swamp?” I gulped but they seem not to hear.

They left me there and I felt the eyes of wild beasts. I cringed and shook inside my shell.

I felt something lift me up and a huge crazy eye looked inside.

“Hello! Hello! Welcome to the party!!!” the mad man, the hatter I was told, said to me with a large smile.

“A cup of tea for my friend!!”

The wild beasts; a mouse, a cat and donkey did pour the tea.

“And cake!!! And treats!” said the mouse. And the cat and donkey agreed.

And so began my new life, adventures, in this wonder land…

Down into the Mines - A Poem inspired by the history of Butte, Montana

Repost from Elitewriters.org

Note: I’m not sure where these words came from, maybe the spirit of my grandfather who worked in the mines here in Butte, Montana.

He was a union man who apparently, in his actions, made the Company a little mad.

He fought for the workers’ rights, to the tooth and nail, and in the process, an “accident” down in that god damn mine, lost his sight but never his spirit.

This poem is dedicated to him and to my hometown of Butte, Montana, who though is still roughed up and bleeding, is still a fighter!!

Into the deep mines we went,

To break our backs,

Our bodies

And our souls,

To bring up that goddamn ore.

Into the mines we went,

For the ore,

To keep the Company’s bottom line,

To keep their wallets fed,

Our own sprouting off moths instead.

The Company owned the land,

The bodies and the souls,

The homes, the stores, even the goddamn air.

Each of us into the mines we went.

The whistle blew and down we went, into the darkness,

To mine the Mother for her ore,

Gold, silver, copper.

We tore.

We ripped.

We dynamited.

Every stroke of the pick, the drill, our brows full of sweat,

We swore,

Down into the mines we went.

Some of us would not see the end of shift,

Accidents,

Deals,

Company didn’t care,

John,

Tom,

Rollings,

hundreds others in other accidents,

They say their souls still going down into those goddamn mines.

My own story was I lived,

They blew out my eyes,

To try to calm the beast,

But I still stung, like a angry bee,

I wrote,

I swore,

And to my boys I told them they’d never go down into those goddamn mines.

THE BUTTE MEASUREMAN A POEM BY AL GIECEK

Reposted from Elitewriters.org

Al Giecek was my grandfather.

He worked just about every mine there was.

He worked “The Hill” here in Butte,Montana until he was blinded(won’t say accident as it was no accident but an attempt on his life by The Company or A.C.M. Anaconda Copper Mining Company) in a blast at the Leonard Mine back in the 1950s.

He wrote.

This is one of his poems he wrote that I found while packing away stuff in preparation to move very shortly.

I wanted to share it and hope you enjoy it.

The Butte Measureman

By Al Giecek

Under the creaking gallows frame,
The Company’s Weejee standa;
It’s boss, a nasty way has he,
With tapes like rubber strands;
And miners watch his scrawny arms
That cheat like gypsy bands.

His tape will stretch from short to long—
Your stope he loves to span;
His brow is wet with evil sweat,
He steals what e’er he can;
And looks the whole world in the face
As though he loved each man!

Week in, week out, from dawn to dusk,
You can feel your cubics go;
You can see him stretch his stingy tape,
He’ll measure short, you know;
Like the Jesse James of olden fame,
With his shooting guns so low.

And miners going home from work,
Look on and loudly roar;
They hate to see his cursed board —
They know they’ve earned much more;
Just hear the ugly words that fly
Toward that thieving boar!

He goes on Sunday to our church —
His heart does not rejoice;
He feels the people’s eyes on him,
And hears the miner’s voice;
Praying for this villian’s sake,
But gives his soul no choice.

It hounds him like his Boss’ voice,
Bringing tears to his weasel eyes;
He then must think of us once more—
How with his tape he lies;
Then in his hard rough heart he vows
To change like morning skies.

Sampling,stealing, measuring,
Throughout the mine he goes;
Each Sunday sees him make some vows,
Each Monday sees them froze;
Something attempted, nothing done —
That’s the way he goes.

Please, please blame not this measureman,
For cubics thou can’t boast!
Tis but the ruling force of job
That rules him evermost;
Let’s only hound the A.C.M.
For higher price to post.

A Recipe for Kolace - from my Grandma's cook book!!!

REPOST - originally posted at Elitewriters.org by me!!

Another recipe discovered tucked away in my grandmother’s cook book.

I’m going to try and translate the hand written recipe which is a bit worn out and has some buttery spots which has obscured the writing even more. (AKA if it calls for a bear’s testicle, probably not correct and you can try and figure it out.)

I’m also scouring the Google to help figure out more.

I have two recipes here; one from my Pop’s cousin (NOTE FROM ME: gave up trying to translate! Basically got to point where it looks like INVADE POLAND, STEAL THEIR DANISH!!!!)  and another from my aunt’s which is typed and instead of (g) of something, basically says THROW IN TWO PACKETS AND YEAST AND PRAY TO GOD IT DOESN’T DEVELOP CONSCIENCES AND TRY TO OVER THROW THE WORLD!

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KOLACE (KO-LA-CHE) OR KOLACHY PRONOUNCED KO-LAW-CHEY : (According to Wikipedia – A kolach is a type of pastry that holds a dollop of fruit, rimmed by a puffy pillow of supple dough. Originating as a semisweet wedding dessert from Central Europe, they have become popular in parts of the United States.

-Recipe from my aunt- (NOTE FROM ME – so many recipes with different fillings as discovered on Google!!! CLICK HERE for more recipes!!!)

DOUGH –

Use the same bread dough as for povetica except add 1/2 cup of sugar (NOTE FROM ME: Don’t have a recipe for povetica?? Welp, you hosed!!! Go invade some country, steal theirs!!! Or hit Google!! Good recipe HERE!)

Roll dough into size that will bake as a cream puff size. (NOTE FROM ME: What? You don’t know the size of a cream puff? GET OUT OF MY KITCHEN!!!! Just kidding! Screw it, go to bakery; ask “I WANT SOME KOLACE!!!!!!)

-FILLING –

Cottage cheese filling

1 lb dry cottage cheese; comes in a package
4 Egg Yolks
1 tbsp. melted butter
1/2 c raisins
1/2 c. sugar
Grated Lemon Rind
1/2 tsp vanilla

Press cheese through strainer.

Mix with egg yolks, butter, sugar, lemon rind, vanilla and raisins; spread on dough; roll into jelly-roll ball but cover ends with the dough itself.

Brush with egg mixed lightly with a spoon of water.

Baking time depends on your oven and altitude.

My aunt baked hers at 375 degrees for 30 minutes, but she suggested a test run before you put all of them in. Makes a bunch.

Recipe from Butte, Montana: Lydia's Meaderville Ravioli

RECIPES FROM BUTTE, MONTANA: LYDIA’S MEADERVILLE RAVIOLI – FROM GRANDMA’S BOOK OF COOKING

(AKA WOMAN’S GLORY – THE KITCHEN)

A VERY BRIEF HISTORY OF MEADERVILLE, MONTANA AND LYDIA’S

Repost from my blog at Elitewriters.org

My dad was born and raised in Butte, Montana, specifically Meaderville, Montana which was an mostly Italian-American suburb of Butte.

Meaderville was named after Charles T. Meader in 1880.

Meaderville was swallowed up by the Berkeley Pit, an open pit mine, in the late 1960s, early 1970s, lost forever except in stories and fading memories of its past citizens.

Meaderville was in its own right a story upon itself with its abundance of restaurants, taverns, night clubs and specialty grocery stores. So much so, that it earned the nickname “Little Monte Carlo.”

Lydia, a world famous Italian style restaurant in Butte, began its life in Meaderville before moving to the Flats in 1946 where it is still currently operating in still much the same way it was back in its early, good food and plenty of it.

A year ago, I was going through my parents’ belongings in preparation for moving out of the house(a long story in its own right involving the state taking said house after my parents’ passing) and discovered one of the cookbooks that my grandmother had giving to my mom.

Inside it was a couple of pieces of paper with some handwritten notes, some looking like my mom’s and the rest in some hard to read script.

“What the hell,” I thought, “It’s been a few days since I wrote a blog!” and settled down into some translations.

THE RECIPE

~DOUGH~

3 Cups of Flour
3 Eggs
1/4 Cup Extra Virgin Olive Oil
1/2 Tablespoon Salt
About 2/3 Cup Warm Water

(NOTE FROM ME: No instructions on making the dough. We assume you know what to do! If you screw up, the spirit of my grandma will come back and kill you! Just kidding, she was a sweet lovely lady, my grandfather though will kill you!!!)

~FILLING~

1 Cup Lean Ground Pork
1 Cup Cooked and Ground Chicken
1 Cup Cooked and Ground Veal
1 Cup Cooked chopped Spinach
1/2 Cup Parsley
1/2 Cup Ground Celery
1/2 Cup Ground Onion
1 Cup Bread Crumbs (soaked in chicken broth)
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
1/2 teaspoon pepper
1/2 teaspoon Allspice
1/4 teaspoon sage
3 Extra Large Eggs
2 cloves of ground garlic

Melt in saucepan 1 cube of butter, 4 tablespoon Extra Virgin olive oil then add above ingredients except for the eggs,spices and breadcrumbs(NOTE FROM ME:Basically throw all the meat, spinach, probably the garlic in to the butter and oil. Doesn’t say this but, well. I’d throw the garlic in first, give it a nice base for the meat and such to do its thing!) and let cook for about 15 minutes.

Remove from stove and cool.

Then add soaked bread crumbs and the three eggs and mix well.

Add the spices and 1/4 cup Parmesan cheese(NOTE FROM ME: Ingredient list does not include the cheese! But who cares! Just add it! What do you mean you don’t have any cheese?! GO GET SOME!!!! I’ll wait!!!)

~SAUCE~

Place in sauce pan 1/2 cube real butter, 3 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil, 1 clove crushed garlic, 1 small onion, “ground” 1/2 pound ground beef(NOTE FROM ME: 1st ground is in quotation marks in original recipe – don’t ask me, just do it!).

Cook for about 15 minutes then add 1 can large tomatoes, 1 can tomato paste diluted in 1 cup of water. Add 1 cup dry ground mushrooms and a can of sliced mushrooms. 1/2 teaspoon of salt. 1/2 teaspoon of pepper. 1 teaspoon of oregano. 1 teaspoon of thyme. 14 cup ground parsley. 1/4 cup ground celery.

Simmer slowly for 2 hours.

~FINAL PREPARATION~

Roll out dough and place filling in mounds. Cover mounds with dough and cut around each one with a pastry wheel.

Boil for 15 to 20 minutes in salted water.

Drain thoroughly, place on platter, and cover with sauce and a heavy sprinkle of grated Parmesan cheese.

~FINAL WORDS FROM THE BLOGGER~ 

Hopefully it all works out for you.

If it doesn’t, buy a plane ticket to Butte, Montana and go to Lydia’s (ain’t too far from the airport!) and tell em I sent you.

You’ll leave stuffed.

~SOME LINKS JUST CAUSE~

LYDIA’S: A MONTANA TRADITION

LYDIA’S SUPPER CLUB

MEADERVILLE, MONTANA – FLICKR

01/18/2018 – WHERE ARE YOU IN REFERENCE TO TIME AND SPACE – A RANDOM WRITE

Life; in shallow husks of amber tides, drifting over the memories of a different life, so far away but still close enough, to open old wounds thought healed.

As distance grows, memories fog, dreams are only images foggy in unclear waters casting off in falls over broken cliffs made of broken glass; her face still youthful as I grow old in the passage of time in the mirror.

I smash it hard with my fist; cut the flesh with the glass, blood drips down into the sink.

I think; it is time to write, something, anything, to the clouds, mishaps, to the darkness outside; I sit here, trying to think, to begin, the words trying to drift from my fingers; if only for a pen, I would put to paper, and set it aflame, but here I sit, typing, pecking at the keyboard, my mind a blazed with thoughts; Dot the Is and cross the Ts, poetry; madness at 3 AM, it comes at this time; distant thoughts; random thoughts; I should turn on the TV.

Where in time am I?

I had a doctor ask me that once; “Where are you, in reference to time and space?”

Seriously, I could not answer him; seriously.

I know the year; it’s 1812!

I kidded.

I hadn’t been born by then; 2948 was my official date of cloning but alas, that wasn’t the correct answer either; apparently I was in time; 2015, a October day, I believe, though it was not cold or the leaves had not begun to change so perhaps it was a different month.It wasn’t 1812.

It could have been May; the darling buds of May; the winds do shake them or so I was told; I was in high school, memorizing the passages of darling buds of May; henceforth a love done lost, to wishes and dreams unlived; is not that reality better to live, to breathe, to see, to feel that heart break then never to have loved before?

What light?

I was asked; “Where are you in reference to time and space?” by the school counselor when I was a young lad.

Apparently people in my life ask me that.

I think.

I ponder.

No answer will suffice; they will write he is lost to that embrace he received; that sweet kiss the first time, though, now, I think it was not sweet, but like slimy eggs; fried.

I was 10; that first kiss, she was 9.

Under a great pine; right out front in my yard, she took my hand, held it tight; we kissed.

Was she my first love?

I cannot say; a first kiss, yes, first love; I do not know.

Still I type; keys, fingers, memories, shorelines, follows, distant skies trance into my mind; I shall end with this line: Where are you in reference to time and space?

Good night!