MrsKette

About Me

I was born in California, while my father was studying at Stanford University, and was raised in Brazil. My (American) husband and I live in a small town in Northern Ohio. I have a lovely daughter (born in Brazil, and an American citizen now) who is a college teacher in Louisiana. The rest of my family lives in Brazil (and are Brazilians). My two best friends, Denise and Virginia, live in South of Brazil. We met when we were kids and they are still my friends!

My favorite coocking book is "I Hate to Cook Book," by Peg Bracken. My favorite food site is Recipezaar--really! And one of my favorite recipes from Recipezaar is SueL's Recipe #39039.

I love movies and my favorites are: "Daniel Deronda," "The Winds of War," "The Dirty Dozen," "300," "Laura," "Die Hard," "Alien," "Cinema Paradiso," "Amarcord," "Casino Royal" (with Daniel Craig), "Indiana Jones," and "Working Girl," among others.

I like to write and some of my poems have been published by a small local press. I imagine how surprised the people who correct my spelling here at Recipezaar are...

Below is one of my poems, published a few years ago. It was written after a visit to Brazil with my husband (his first. The guy we bought the bowls from is a "Bugre" [pronounced boogree], a mix of white and indian. Some people still use these bowls as kitchen utensils in Brazil. I still have the wooden bowls, by the way. (Not sure if this is the final, edited version though...)

Two Wooden Bowls

On the top of the chest of drawers they sit
the small atop the bigger wooden bowl, oblong both,
as feathers, light material, hand carved, reminiscent of another world.
The wheels cross the distance between the asphalt and the shoulder
dust floats on the air breeding with the rays of a sunny afternoon.
A little wooden shack, miserable, piles of wooden bowls around,
slices of fresh curled wood, like snow flakes fill the floor
crawling around unfinished bowls, as chicks around their mother.
Behind the shack, the mountains spread their perfume
a river crosses down at the valley. Then we see the man.
Dark thick hair, shy, awkward gesture from artistic hands
an Indian-European model for Velasquez light-darkness drama.
The lines in his face, his aquiline nose, black eyeballs lowered,
thick eyebrows defend him from the look of strangers.
His lightly curved back anatomically prepared to accept the chore,
the chisel born in these callous industrious hands of his.
Bony volumes in his stretched tanned body forms a sculpture
the fabric carves its texture in dirty lines and swirls across the volumes.
He could have been a Ramses, his strong profile defying the horizon,
he was the man who simply carved light pieces of wood. Simple.
No majestic ramseic sandals stepping on the dry soil, no stony pectoral,
just the curved backed rough being, no more than what he was. Simple.

The sound of car doors slamming, words, dirty children's silhouettes,
a pile of fresh carved bowls holds the air around them
exhibiting their light rough skin, tempting, pale, primitive, pure.
The man's hands are dirty, dark. He is not literate.
He doesn't know he's an artist or where America is
he just sits and carves wooden bowls;
art flows from his hands as water from the spring down to the valley.
The artist is a man who doesn't know what an artist means.
The man, the artist, needs to feed his children.

Two wooden bowls sit on my lap as the car gains distance.
I feel as if I carry this man's children and I speak softly
only they can hear my whispering "there, there."
Only they can hear the man's, the artist's thoughts they carry.
They will go to a far land, they will cross rivers and mountains,
there, where the sun shines in different angles,
there, where the words have different meanings and tastes.
The two wooden bowls will sit inside each other as if they speak
and finally they will both find comfort in their oblong, concave contact,
and they will look for acceptance from the chest of drawers,
there, where they can't understand the language spoken.