It was Demi's for dinner last night. Phyllis drove her sporty little white Chrysler PT Cruiser she's driving at the moment. I keep telling her that she needs a red one. She stuffed a bottle of Smoking Loon and several poems in her purse and off we ventured.

Demi's daughter Karis regaled us with things a three-year old does and amazed me with her sailor's appetite. I used the opportunity to tell her how awesome I thought it was that she ate heartily and had a sense of balance with her food choices. It's important that we foster healthy eating in our girl children since there is so much sickness with bulimia and anorexia these days thanks to Holyword Stars and Wall Street ad agencies. Phyllis says Karis looked like she was receiving a dispensation from the Goddess. I thought she was looking at me like a talkative, old lady.

So. Demi fixes this delicious chicken dish we requested again this time. She does something to tenderize the chicken, dips it in something else and then in parmesan and bread crumbs with something else and a bit of lemon. I really do need to get these recipies in here so you can try them. We had a Rothschild Bordeaux before dinner. You know, no matter the shows on t.v. showing how expert the male is as a chef, the lion's share of food preparation in the world is handled by women. Those boys just think they're teaching us something. And we let them. It's one of the ways that we women get to be creative. We can cook our way into and out of situations. We can fund our groups and institutions with bake sales. We can cook Like Water For Chocolate. We can even cook up a man. You can take that both ways - through HIS stomach. Or ours in certain kitchens on the planet.

I say on my profile that I don't or can't cook. The truth is, I am a very good cook and can flambe, fricasse, and saute with the best of them or put a good buttermilk biscuit on your plate. It's just something I don't do much at all anymore. I had every imaginable gadget and serving accoutrement to throw dinner parties for 20. Which I've done, up to the flaming coffees. Another little rebellion in my middle life. Like refusing to be a secretary to anybody ever again. Or never struggling into another pair of pantyhose. Ever.

After dinner I read them Baroness Elsa's poem. Phyllis read poems that she doesn't read when she gives her public reading. Demi's poems need to be public, too.