The other day a friend of mine commented that I wasn’t sounding very enthusiastic about returning to Paris again in the Spring. Well, I could only reply that it’s difficult to get very inspired about much of anything in the middle of a miserable Winter. So, to remove any and all doubts that anyone might have about my attitude, I am posting a selection of three of the petit pleasures I always enjoy when I’m in Paris. And believe me, I am looking forward to enjoying them again very much…

000 Paris PicnicPetit Pleasure Number One. A lunchtime picnic in a Paris park. A fresh chicken curry baguette sandwich, a chocolate tart and a chocolate éclair. Add a bottle of good red wine and I’m set to go…

000 Cafe MedardPetit Pleasure Number Two. A delicious Café Crème in the Café le St. Medard at the end of the Rue Mouffetard…

000 ContrescarpePetit Pleasure Number Three. A Pinot Noir in the evening on the veranda of the Café Contrescarpe, watching as the rest of Paris saunters past…

All photos taken in Paris in May 2013.


© 2015 nightpoet all rights reserved

Categories: Food, France, Paris, Perspective, Photography | Tags: , , , , | Leave a comment


Breakfast December 7 2014

Good morning and welcome to another edition of Breakfast On The Blog. This morning just a very simple but poignant message for you to contemplate…

000 Monsanto 3Fight Monsanto, boycott all GMO products, demand labeling. It’s your life that is at stake along with the lives of all the rest of us…


© 2014 nightpoet all rights reserved

Categories: Food, Perspective, Politics | Tags: , , | Leave a comment





Good morning and welcome to another edition of Breakfast On The Blog. Back in the days when I was much more active on Facebook than I am now (I refer to it as Farcebook nowadays) I used to do a post each Saturday evening called The Lasagna Chronicles (these days it is sorely missed by the multitudes of readers who once followed it, if I can judge by the volume of fan mail overflowing my inbox…yeah, right). It grew out of my regular habit of having a fantastic serving of lasagna every Saturday night at my favourite local Italian restaurant (if you have to have something to look forward to in life, why not a great hot spicy steaming lasagna dinner?). So today I am going to rerun one of those Lasagna Chronicle posts for your perusal…


Good evening Ladies and Gentlemen! Welcome once again as we take you beyond reality, beyond belief, to a place where time itself stands still, where things are not quite as they seem, where you will enter that place in space and time known as…The Lasagna Zone.

Tonight we bring you:

The Attack Of The Giant Mutant Lasagna


Space. The new frontier. Vast empty expanses of void. Temperatures cold enough to freeze already frozen things hundreds of times over. And then, the radiation. Radiating everywhere. Deadly rays just wishing they could find something to mutate. And sometimes they do.

Scientists believe that it all began when one of the International Space Station astronauts mistakenly jettisoned his lasagna dinner when he mistook the garbage disposal chamber for the microwave oven and put his lasagna dinner in and pushed the button. Swoosh. The world`s first orbiting lasagna. That was many, many years ago. That ultra frozen lasagna circled the Earth and absorbed incredible doses of radiation that apparently had their effect upon its organic composition. The radiation had finally found something to mutate and it went at it with a vengeance.

Shift forward in time, many years later. A small Midwestern town. Saturday night. And there’s a dance going on at the local VFW hall, a combo line dancing hip hop event. Two teenagers, Buford and Mabel have been there s while and are getting bored. “Buford,” says Mabel as they`re jumping and bouncing along in a line, “I need a cigarette break. How `bout you? Let’s go outside for a spell.”

This slowly sinks in, through the noise and the activity. Buford`s not the brightest bulb in the box. “Yeah, I reckon that`s not a bad idea Mabel.” And they both head to the exit and out into the night. It`s summer, some stars are out and the moon is bright and full. As he lights up his cigarette Buford says, “Say, how’d you like to go down to the pond in my pickup truck and see if we can hear any o’ them ol’ bullfrogs?”

Now Mabel, busily puffing away on her cigarette, her filament`s not the brightest on the block either, thinks that Buford`s suggestion is hunky dory so they climb into his truck and rumble off down the road, taking a turn to the right after a mile or so, first down a gravel covered and then just dirt covered road to the pond. Despite it being such a nice night, they`re surprised that no one else is down there listening to the frogs. They pull up to the pond`s edge and climb out of the truck. “Damn,” says Buford, “Just listen to them buggers croakin’. They`re right loud critters.”

Well, Mabel`s not really paying him much attention, because, at the dance she downed about three Cokes and a Moonpie and now she`s caffeine`d out and up to the brim with pee. She’s got to use the facilities. Like ten minutes ago. So she explains to Buford that she`s going to head off over behind that small ridge and relieve herself. Buford says “Okay.” He’s still thinking about the bullfrogs. What neither of them notice is that, over in the direction of the ridge, there`s a strange faint orange yellowish glow. And beneath the constant croaking of the bullfrogs there is an unexplainable crackling noise.

About ten minutes later Buford is still happily chillin’ on the frogs when it finally dawns on him that Mabel hasn’t returned yet. He thinks for a minute and then calls out to her. “Hey Mabel! Everything comin’ out alright?” There’s no answer. All he hears are the frogs. “Mabel?” he calls into the dark, over the ridge. No reply. So, he figures she must be funnin’ him and he heads up over the ridge to look for her. As he reaches the top and looks down the other side he notices two things. One is that the area is bathed in a dim orange yellowish light and the other is that he sees one of her shoes lying on the ground about 20 yards down the slope. Her left shoe. “Damn,” he says half aloud, half to himself, “What’s she doin’ losin’ her shoe? Shit, now I gotta go pick it up.” So Buford ambles down the hill in the serious moonlight and reaches her shoe. He picks it up. There`s something sticky and gooey hanging off it. He thinks, “Damn, I hope she didn’t shit in her shoe.” And then, suddenly, the air is filled with a strange odor. And then he sees that he’s casting a shadow and that something is glowing behind him.

Buford turns around slowly, and even his rather dull comprehension snaps into reality as he stands there looking into the countenance of a Giant Mutant Lasagna! In front of the monster Lasagna, covered with tomato sauce and melted cheese is Mabel’s pretty party dress, the one with the blue violets on it. Only Mabel isn’t in it. The Lasagna begins to move towards him, at a speed faster than he would have thought possible. Buford’s only got one thought on his mind, “I gotta get to my pickup truck and get my shotgun.” He turns and runs up the slope, dropping Mabel’s left shoe. The Lasagna slides effortlessly after him. Buford gets over and down the ridge and stumbles up to his pickup truck. All the bullfrogs are strangely silent now. The whole area is bathed in this grungy orange yellowish glow. The air has a distinct cheese-like smell and there is a crackling noise. Buford yanks the driver’s side door open and reaches for his shotgun. But just as he’s about to grab it the Lasagna slithers up behind him and begins to engulf him. He screams and grabs the steering wheel with both hands as it begins to drag him out of the truck. He feels it beginning to pull him further out. He releases one hand and starts pounding on the horn. It jams. The Lasagna sucks harder. His fingers start to lose their grip. The horn is blaring away. With a sickening slurp the Lasagna ingests him still screaming and then gurgling until there is only the blaring horn cutting through the night.

The Lasagna slowly moves up the road from the pond in the direction of the town. It is only a mile away. And the Lasagna has tasted blood. It is hungry. The horn suddenly stops. And as the Giant Mutant Lasagna slides up the dirt road towards the main highway the crackling noise fades. There is silence. And then, first one, and then another and then one after the other, the bullfrogs begin croaking again…

Be sure to join us again next week, same time, same channel, when once again we will take you on a journey through the Lasagna Zone…

Mutant LasagnaThe Giant Mutant Lasagna.

IMG_3047The Great Lasagna Dinner. Photos taken in October 2014.


© 2014 nightpoet all rights reserved

Categories: Food, Perspective, Photography, Uncategorized | Tags: , , | Leave a comment





After posting about good food in Paris, I have to give this issue equal time. And I can only say that Monsanto is poisoning the world, especially the United States, wiping out and enslaving  the small farmers and opening a Pandora’s Box of unknown, untested genetic nightmares. At least in Europe they’ve had the sense to either ban Monsanto’s GMOs or require labeling. In fact, companies and farmers in the European Union take pride in advertising that their products are NOT genetically altered. In the United States it seems that people just stand by and watch as Monsanto serves them ever larger portions of genetically mutated poisonous food and blatantly bribes and buys members of Congress to pass laws allowing them to patent natural processes and operate without any kind of serious regulation. Remember one simple truth. YOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT…

000 Monsanto FoodPhoto by March Against Monsanto. Poster by Nightpoet.


© 2014 nightpoet all rights reserved

Categories: Food, Perspective | Tags: , | 2 Comments



There is some truth to the cliché “Americans eat to live, and the French live to eat.” But when you’re in Paris it doesn’t have to be ritzy, exclusive or expensive. It just has to taste good. This was an afternoon meal at one of the Jewish falafel places, King Falafel Palace, located on the Rue des Rosiers in the Marais district. I opted for the chicken curry pita plate. I thought it sounded interesting. For Paris it was reasonably priced and tasted fine. I’ve eaten in the L’As du Fallafel, which is just next door and somewhat better, but it is usually much more hectic and crowded. Of course, there are always those Americans who end up in a Parisian McDonalds or Subway (roll of eyes). And then there are those who end up in La Closerie des Lilas, where you can pay €160 (about $226) for a dinner and drinks for two on the terrace. The exclusive restaurant is even more expensive…

000 Curry ChickenPhoto taken in the Marais district in Paris in July 2014.


© 2014 nightpoet all rights reserved

Categories: Food, Paris, Perspective, Photography | Tags: , , , | Leave a comment

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