With crunchy crispy onions

Things come around. Things go away.
It all cycles, ebb, and flow. High and low.

Why it seems like only yesterday that Megyn Kelly was hired by NBC to report the news. And now, she, and her pale face, may be gone with the wind.  Just like October.  Here one minute. Gone the next.

You never know, I suppose. Two people fell to their death in Yosemite today. They were posing for a selfie at a popular spot, on a cliff’s edge. And away they went.

And that’s how it goes. We are always on the move. The world shifting and changing.  Especially in their case.

The daily headlines are proof of that. I have tried to write three different pieces tonight. But I’ve scrapped all three. Too many toes to step on, no matter which way I go. But I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that even Caitlyn Jenner has turned on Trump.

Maybe I’m just sad and cynical today, because the lady who invented the Green Bean Casserole died. Her name was Dorcas Reilly.

I don’t think you could have made up a better name for the creator of this very homey recipe. Albeit, when we were kids, we used to call certain people “Dorkus”. It was not a favorable term, by any means.

But. Away she goes. From the Campbell’s-Soup-Recipe Kitchen to the realms of the Universe, she goes. I hope they have green beans and mushroom soup wherever her spirit lands. Dorcas and her Green Bean Casserole. She was 92.

I guess it is all a part of life. The full circle.  I write about this often, it seems.  Things pass away. New things come along. And it goes around and around and around. And around.

Like little gerbils running wildly on the wheel in the cage.

I can almost hear the whirring creakiness of it. So yes. I guess that might be my intention today. I will be the best little gerbil spinning fiercely on the wheel that I can be.


“Don’t grieve. Anything you lose comes round in another form.”
― Rumi


“I must be lean & write & make worlds beside this to live in.”
Sylvia Plath


“It’s so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone.”
― John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent