The Best Fluffy Pancakes recipe you will fall in love with. Full of tips and tricks to help you make the best pancakes.
In Prague it’s growing lightand snowing—sleety,leaden.In Prague the baroque slowly lights up:uneasy, distant,its gilt grief-blackened.The statues on Charles Bridgelook like birds descended from a dead star.In Prague the first trolley has left the garage, its windows glow yellow and warm.But…
Below the towers, under the arcades, I wander through Prague late at night.The sky is an alembic distilling gold in the dark—an alchemist’s still over a deep-blue flame.I walk down the hill toward Charles Square: on the corner, next to…
My dog’s name was Satan.”Was” has nothing to do with his name—nothing happened to his name. And he wasn’t anything like his name. Devils are cruel:the cruel are sly and lie, but they aren’t smart. My dog was smart.I helped…
For one thing, hangmen separated us; for another, this rotten heart of mine played a trick on me.It isn’t in the cards that I’ll see you again.I knowas a young man you’ll be like a sheaf of wheat —tall, blond,…
Leaving a jumble of jagged mountains in the west, our train descended to the warm, humid plain. A pickup sweated past us on our right,the driver a dark plump woman in a green dress.A sailor sat on the burlap sacks…
My fellow patients, you’ll get well.The aches and pains will cease.Ease will come softly, like a warm summer evening descending from heavy green branches.My fellow patients,hold on a bit longer, hang on.What waits outside the door is not death but…
from Hungarian travel notesWhether at dawn or in the middle of the night, I’ve carried people news—of other people, the world, and my country, of trees, the birds and the beasts— in the bag of my heart.I’ve been a poet,…
How many times we’ve written poems together, how many times I’ve rested my tired head in its smoke-blue hands.I don’t think it will hurt me.But out of respect for your science and to make you happy, Lydia Ivanna, okay—I’ll give…
You are a field, I am the tractor.You are paper, I am the typewriter.My wife, mother of my son,you are a song— I am the guitar.I’m the warm, humid night the south wind brings— you are the woman walking by…
1. AWAKENINGYou woke up. Where are you? At home.You can’t get used to waking up in your own house.This is the kind of daze thirteen years of prison leaves you in.Who’s sleeping next to you?It’s not loneliness—it’s your wife. She’s…