I woke to clumps of snow clinging to the tree branches. I am in Boston, and I know I am in Boston because the snow-blower began as soon as I made my first cup of coffee. I have been listening to live streams of poetry and sweet fiction and -non all day, and I had to come home and settle down with a grilled cheese sandwich. I bought the German thin sliced raw spelt bread, instead of the brioche loaf I eyed at first, thinking to be healthy. Yes, this is a post on bread and cheese. I wish I had pickles, east or west, to go with it, but I added tomato, and thought very hard about adding baby kale leaves, but opted not to. Of course I wondered if I should have by the second half. This is still a post about making a sandwich, though not as eloquent as eating oatmeal with Keats (see Kinnell, G.) I wanted to write about Smilla( see Hoeg, P.) and the rattle of the snow removal, but twelve and more hours have passed. I have heard the brilliance of Jeanette Winterson twice, which leaves me exhilarated and lonely, too, because she spoke of the simplicity of if having decided to admit one must write, one then shapes a life to fit around that notion. I heard a praise song to Muriel Rukeyser in this day of International women’s Day. I met new friends, and I went home, and made a grilled cheese sandwich. Writing can be the very stuff if not staff of life, even if one writes about toast(see Slater, N.)