Cubans and Celts

End of October, i served Unc and Bri a three-course meal on my new rugs. Slowcooked chicken breasts in butter with pablanos, portabellas, red bells, onion, salt, pepper, sage and Herbes de Provence. Arugula salad. Sweet afters pecked: pecans and dark chocolate. Abt 12 Belgian, trapped by Trappists. Can you blame those 'celibates' throwing themselves at brew vats? Such aleswilling must be connubial. We fell on the feast, fortified with Yerba Matë, jasmine flower greentea, oil-black coffee – and convivial chews on two inches of Cuban shared among three. Kari-Synnøve, Norwegian folklorist dissertator maid in man's guise, brought it by, courtesy of dandy Scott Mellor. http://www.scandinavian.wisc.edu/mellor/hca_summer/index.html
I'm no smoker. Clinton's my man – i don't inhale. Not a fumer, yet the smokey cud was toothsome. Sweet was the ale on cigar-bitten tongue, bittersmack against Belgian sugar.

Dijeridoo droned between pucker-blown puffs. "Experts know nothing about lung capacity", came the purring report, as I bore up the doughty Donder Dij, echo-growling from underground. "Here's to Chestertonian charity and the quickness of queens and kings." Aborginal wood lodged in lip-pout, I made it groan like a grizzly. I opined my opinions of Halloween's social applications for Kari's videocamera and dissertation - several new pages toward a chapter. Every man was an orator, endemic with intellect. Puffing with posture. Ah. An evening of great repose and deep fruity laughs. I never once went out toward Langdon or State. Let the unhallow revelers de-hallow the Day. Lovely Halloween.

On Walpurgis, April 30th, i was warmed up to by Brían Hart, a St Louis vocal prodigy with Irish music band Gan Bua, and only American ever to win the Sgiath Uí Dhlaig shield at a traditional sean-nós singing contest in Ireland – he's sung for President Mary McAleese. He appears in published albums, and works with Cé in Milwaukee. The fond affinities and affection I found will complement my comrade bonds among men of camaraderie. I'd no idea who or what he was when we sang back to back at a session in DeKoven Center in Racine for an Irish Language Weekend. I was surpised, but comforted. As the craic increased and crowds dwindled, he and i lingered last in the room - sheep outside the fold. Two mottled sheep in a flock of same thousands. Not often I meet another Melungeon who's also part Ashkenazi Jew, all Celtophile, and entranced by Transylvania. He's the only person i've met whom i consider 'my other'. Wonder to watch another me. http://www.ganbua.com/