Found poetry, Joan's dinner.

My daughter, Joan Powell, who lives near Boston, offered this 
description of a meal, which i've converted into a poem.

Spontaneous Meal in Lincoln

Last night Jeff, the young product designer 

who moved into the house's ground-floor apartment, 

knocked on the door and dropped off 

fresh striped bass fillets--he'd caught the critter himself.

 (Several weeks ago he gave us venison steaks from, yes, a deer he himself had shot.) 

This evening Chris pan-fried said fish 

and served it with a homemade bearnaise, homemade rolls, 

and a salad courtesy of me (baby romaine, steamed green beans, 

shaved piave, and honey-worchestershire-mustard-balsamic-fresh-sage dressing). 

And Belinda brought over soup made from 

the first of the family-grown longpie pumpkins (a recently resuscitated heirloom variety and one of the most flavorful members of the squash/pumpkin squadron)

 as well as baklava she'd made from their first-ever honey harvest 

(Paul started keeping bees last year). 

Wine: Vernaccia di San Gimignano 2008 from Casa Alle Vacche, Tuscany. 

I'd bought it about two months ago without any particular purpose in mind, 

but it turned out to be just right for this evening's menu.

 Everything fell into place like the perfect pop song.