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My doctor is a Muslim

my dentist is as well

as is the man running the corner shop

who cares for his clientele

The bloke next door he’s one too

his missus gives us dishes

traditional Bangladesh cuisine

gifted to us with her best wishes

He also owns a restaurant

he serves the best curry money can buy

always stops to have chat

you couldn’t meet a nicer guy

Oh yes, and there’s the car wash bloke

he cracks a joke or two

when hosing down my motor

with the rest of his rag tag crew

The midwife, such a lovely girl

all those years ago

helped bring our son into this world

a Muslim compassion cameo

I’ve played cricket against Muslim sides

fine sportsmen, honest men

so what is all this ignorant vitriol

I note by spoken word and pen

For each and every one I know

all…

My granddaughter’s mother was a refugee from Laos. Once, on Thanksgiving, I started a conversation asking everyone’s earliest memories. She spoke last.

She remembered eating at a table at a refugee camp in Thailand when a stray dog ran up to her and stole the food off her plate.

She said this in the most deadpan way. The conversation was over. She had no interest in entertaining us with her family’s refugee story. Only the one image of being in a camp and having a dog steal her food.

My granddaughter’s father is a Nicaraguan who became a naturalized U.S. citizen when he was in his teens. He is our son, brought to the U.S. when he was 21 months old.

My husband’s family emigrated from Ukraine in the early 20th century to escape the pogroms. His grandfather and his great uncle walked to Palestine where his uncle stayed and…

When I last asked for questions about Britain or the U.S., Dan Antion wrote, “The last night I was in London, I had some kind of gooey toffee desert (sticky something). I wrote my friend in Ipswich and said, ‘why did you send us the Beatles and keep this a secret?’ but he never replied. This makes me think there’s a law against describing that dish. If you choose not to write about this or toffee, I’ll understand (but it will confirm my suspicion).”

Never one to be scared off by sensible considerations or petty legalities, I’ll tell you everything I know on the subject. And more. Much, much more.

Irrelevant photo: a volunteer cyclamen that planted itself by the back door

It sounds to me like Dan stumbled into an underground club where sticky toffee pudding was being served on the sly. While he was on the pavement humming…

“Essence”
Painting by Timothy Fleming
From fineartamerica.com

what binds you to me
I don’t know you
we’re in no way alike
we share no close blood
wear different hued skin
speak separate tongues
hold dissimilar soils
in the crease of our hands
pray discretely our rituals
calling God unalike names

what binds you to me
doesn’t our marked disparity
minimize any loose ties
of a broad shared humanity
making distinctions of culture
and clan our definitive essence
perhaps it’s our shadows who
know the wise answers but
how can I ask when I can’t
tell which shadow is mine

*******************

“An emancipated society would not be a unitary state, but the realization of universality in the reconciliation of differences.” – Theodor Adorno

“Well, are you ready for a fairy tale?”

“Oh, yes!  Things have been so depressing lately.  Tell me a good one, Uncle Fox!”

“Once upon a time, there was a future President who was born deep in the African savannah, under the acacia trees.  From the time he was a little boy, it was his goal to bring the Islamic faith to the American nation.  As a young man, he made the long, perilous journey from Kenya to America.  His Marxist mentors were already waiting here for him.  They subjected him to the toughest kind of mental training, until he was turned into the perfect instrument of subversion.  When he was ready, his handlers helped him infiltrate the Senate.  Little did the American people know that a fascist dictator would soon be unleashed upon them…”

“But I thought he was a Marxist…”

“Shhhhh!  Don’t ruin the story!  Remember, this is…

“I think we Brits are a bit short on things to celebrate at this time of year,” DoneDreaming wrote when I asked what people might like to read about. “With Thanksgiving coming up I wondered if you could give us the lowdown on how we could join in. Do we Brits have what it takes to re-instate Thanksgiving over this side of the pond?”

Well, as every card-carrying American knows, the most important element in a Thanksgiving dinner is canned pumpkin, and—shock, horror, and I hope I don’t create in international incident here—it’s not sold in British supermarkets.

Okay, all you Americans who buy a prefab pie, settle down out there. I’m not bad-mouthing you or your pies or your dinners. My mother did the same and she was a wondrous and wise human being. Not a great cook, but if I had to choose between the two qualities…