Where The Brightest Minds Have The Darkest Corners
Tag Archives: love

NaPoWriMo 21:30 ~ Love is Less than Three

by The AOMuse

…but divisible by one
a prime number
held culpable for
irrational conversions
constructed
of misappropriated
commas
these periods
erroneously punctuated
digits disassembling
wrong in all places
calculated to confound
the ratio routed
from a human center
but circular
expanding forever
never quite finding
a measure
accounting for
complementary
probability
that our overlapping
spatial arrangements
might converge into
the robust
Venn intersection
but Love is less
than three
and still greater than me.

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The Language of Touch: Navigating the Body of Black Spatial Intimacy

by The AOMuse

“Touch helps.” ~ TiGi Nii

Habit.  Over the course of the prior month, she and I had cultivated a habit of physical mapping; exploring the landscape of the body through touch.  Birthmarks.  Moles.  Tufts of hair.  Dents.  Dimples.  Blemishes.  Hidden imperfections composing the perfect human whole.  The matter of habit was crucial.  What is casually ignored upon first knead conditions itself into keen awareness over time.  Certain muscles become taut and stiff more frequently than others.  You discover where stress settles in the body and begin to manipulate it loose with greater ease.  We learn each other.  I came to know that if nothing else was done, if sleep threatened to overtake me before I could chart the entirety of her form with my hands, I must apply the utmost care to her feet.  Habit.  Touch.  Discovery.

Most encounters were punctuated by a meal.  The careful handling of the body seeming somehow related to both preparing food and sitting down to eat in the company of silence.  Compassion must guide you in either task amplifying the clarity of communication suffusing through it.  Preparation of the pan for sauteing; coating the surface with a layer of olive oil over low heat.  Warming friction of hands rubbing briskly against one another excavating the healing scent of tea tree and ginger essence in an almond oil base which penetrates skin and muscle while calming the senses.  The methodical chopping of an assortment of greens like unto discerning the precise stroke for knuckling into her back, shoulders and thighs.  Details.  Routine.  Touch.

The relationship ended though not before I was reminded of the renewing intensity of touch which had for a brief time escaped me.  Long before words arrived easily, it was an elemental and concise form of expression.  As a tiny infant being touched, cradled and rocked in the arms of my mother, learning to appreciate the art of affection and look into eyes of love.  How could I know my brain was being developed as it sought to understand the loving acts this woman showered upon one whom had nothing to give her in return.  If nothing else, I could clutch hold upon that extended digit she offered me; laugh when she made sounds I failed to interpret.  It lives in the nostalgia of street crossings alongside Jah’kaya where a gentle squeezing of the palm reminded her that the cross walk was a place of danger where she should hold strong to my hand as we made our way to the other side.  “Grip tight Jah’kaya.”  A short, stern lecture on outdoor safety reduced to a simple act of attentive compression of five coupled fingers.  Touch.  Parenting.  Protection.

Black Love In Public.  A restoration of the intimate art of a physical embrace performed in an avenue where it would be most accessible for sensory consumption by all members of the community.  Out of this convergence of living beings was conceived the mantra, “Free Black Hugs!”, a statement of our collective intent to valiantly fracture the dam holding back the flood of Black spatial intimacy by simply appearing before others unafraid to express a loving physical moment.  Not so frozen by our unawareness and invisibility amongst one another in public spaces that we are frightened by such a thing as touch.  Returning safety again to the sharing of personal space with each other through embrace, rich conversation or the silent connection of two pairs of eyes reflecting a smile of acknowledgement.  Familiarity.  Touch.  Community.

Touch renews.  Touch builds.  Touch sustains.  Social media has created a conversation on the distance that exists between people who grapple with the expanse of those far away even when sharing the present company of friends.  This tool is only a justification offered for the emotional distance which already existed between us.  Remember to hold hands.  Touch the fingers.  Appreciate the tips of them.  Do they bite their nails?  Do they pluck their cuticles?  Touch is an informal method of acknowledging the human being who stands before you as worthy of recognition and necessary.  You notice them.  You know them.  You SEE this person.  Sight.  Touch.  They are connected.  Listen.  Feel.  The senses should necessarily blend together in the mind if we are to build stronger relationships as whole beings.  Binding.  Building.  Touch.

Kiss the lips.  When was the last time you remembered a kiss?  Do you remember each one?  Do you know how well each of your lovers has kissed?  Neat form or sloppy?  The kiss is one of many forms of touch which has been overpowered as an expression of loving intimacy.  The shape and contours of the lips.  How the mouth puckers and two lovers search those contours seeking a configuration which locks them together in a passionate embrace.  Do you use your hands when you kiss?  Where do you place them?  I lay them gently on either side of the face or if drawing back from a hug, they may both be beneath the arms, clutching the upper back; left hand below, right hand above.  What do all of the things that we are touching or not touching say about our level of intimacy with our partners or friends?  Touch.  Kiss.  Caress.

Hug the body.  Massage that human form in 120 seconds or better.  Once you teach yourself to be long distance lover of touch, you may find that hugs grow longer and more profound.  Both arms under, hands in center of back.  Diagonal; one arm under, the other over the shoulder.  Hands cupping under to touch the shoulder blades.  The big squeeze which is accompanied by a lift.  Do you practice your hugs?  Do you notice how well you hug;  acknowledge when you have held back your best hug?  Do you go back in for a second round?  I need 3 or 4 hugs from someone I haven’t seen in a while and 5 or 6 from those I see often.  I’m backwards though and quite aware of this issue.  Embrace.  Touch.  Breathe.

Touch develops.  Touch is an amplifier.  It can make good communication so much better or bad communication that much worse.  Let us rediscover touch once again and to our comfort, find ways to allow it to radiate throughout our lives again with friends and lovers alike.  Have you touched someone today?

“So since we know touch can be used to heal and aid in communication, it becomes a useful tool in sustaining relationships. If when we’re having difficulty, we choose to come closer instead of pulling away, we can usually find the strength to work it out. Touch helps. Try it! ” ~ TiGi Nii

“What I long for, for myself, and for all who need it is touch that is not facilitated by capitalism. Touch that, in its demand for our vulnerability, our giving of our whole selves, does not exact from us psychic violence. Touch that is healing, and intimate, and loving, without the necessity of being sexual. And yet, access to safe, healthy sexual touch, when we want it.” ~ Crunktastic from Taking It All Off: Black Women, Nudity, and the Politics of Touch


Love Is The Revolution: A Rant from the Literate Epoch

by The AOMuse
HeartRevolution

“I am the founder of Nowhaus,
The home where Life becomes Art.
It’s a halfway house, I guess you could say,
For those who have to live life more than halfway.

I don’t write or paint or sculpt, you see,
My masterpiece is this family.
I’ve built this radical sanctuary,
Where only love is revolutionary.”
~ Desi from Passing Strange

Love the doing for only then is your best work delivered.  Therefore you must choose work which soothes and settles itself within the protected core of your being.  Love the process for then you might mine the crevice of each moment until discovering the space which allows you to dream deeply.  Deep dreams speed the pursuit towards deeper action.  Orient your love towards the axis of action.

Love is not sufficiently thought or spoken.  Love is done over and over again.  Love is in fact overdone, overflowing and overexposed.

Love burns like the funeral pyre of the bennu bird seeking anew its resurrection.  Love is a metaphor for growth as love expands to envelop all around you.  Love big.  Love wide.  Love deep.

Love like the day is your last.  Like time is escaping and all you can do is excavate every ounce of emotion to pour into this person, project, prospect or process which is your passion.

Love long.  Late nights.  Exhausted mornings.  Disappointments which help discern meaning from this fruit of wasted labor.  Love until it hurts because it always will eventually.

Love until you can let go and say with solemnity that you have loved until you could stand to love no more.  Never let love lose.  Love does not lose.  Love always wins.

Love the struggle.  Love success.  Love challenge.  Love change.  Love changes.  Love changes.  Love.  Change.  Is.

Ain’t no luck just love of chance.  Ain’t no strategy just love of planning properly.  Love making preparations for opportunity.

Love community.  Love push back.  Love ain’t no damn crutch.  Just because I love you doesn’t mean I won’t correct you severely with love.

Love people.  Love the people.  Love your people.  Love YOUR people.

Love getting lost for in the course of navigating yourself back onto the path, you discover new avenues to make your way around those obstacles.

Love the breakdown for it gives you an excuse to dance.  I said.  Love the breakdown for it gives you an excuse to dance.  The breakdown may not necessarily be in the middle of the song.  Sometimes it arrives in traffic.  Tired eyes.  Nose, red and twisted.  Face puffed.  Searching for the peace of yourself somehow misplaced in pursuit.  Love the breakdown for it gives you an excuse to dance.

Love the dance for it affords the most beautiful possible means to maneuver through a fall.  The dance can make a fall look like art.  Love makes dancing while falling the most perfect method of repositioning.

Love discomfort for you can learn from it.  Examine it.  Crack it apart like pomegranate and feast upon the seeds as Persephone hungering in a lonely space of Hades.

Love rambling, omni-directional rants for on rare occasions they are complete thoughts struggling to liberate themselves and remind you that pretty ain’t always insightful and structure does not connote utility.  Sometimes that ugly and disassembled mess is a collection of puzzle pieces that will find their way together again in the reader’s mind.

Like love.  Awkward and tripping all over itself.  Searching for the time that is just right not knowing it has always held the metronome.

Love counts the rhythm of a beating heart and the moments left in one that is bleeding.  Love is a band aid to stop the bleeding so you can put yourself back together again.  Humpty Dumpty ain’t no fairy tale love.

Love is the only real revolution you have left for it is a cable tie which can draw together all the other elements you have at your disposal.  If you don’t sincerely love building community, aiding people and addressing problems, your revolution will find itself a hollow gourd echoing the simple music of activity with no one to dance to the band.

Love is the wallpaper of this radical sanctuary where only love is revolutionary.


Review: Contraband Marriage

by The AOMuse

Contraband Marriage Contraband Marriage by Tichaona Chinyelu
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

“Unofficially contraband
Like weeds that dare to subvert
Concrete
Loving him, marrying him
Prisoner,
Felon,
Gangster,
Thug
Was something
That wasn’t supposed to happen” ~ “Contraband Marriage”

Contraband Marriage digested as a complete treatise is an exquisitely tender collection of material juxtaposed against the writing I originally encountered of Tichanona Chinyelu. Those first experiences with her work were conceptually jarring. Her words moved in the manner of serrated blade edges drawing nary a punch when slicing towards the meat of matters both personal and political. The physical and emotional landscape she evokes is a drastic contrast of dystopic futurism and afro-diasporic classicism. I would often need to separate my reading of her work with lengthy periods of reorientation returning later for a consolidated review of any new material.

This manuscript differed from those encounters both in style and substance. I was able to complete the text in a span of two days. Those two days were filled with a range of emotional experiences including the frustration of co-parenting, relational indifference and somber post-rupture nostalgia also known as the break up blues. As I sat down to write this review, I stopped myself at the outset contemplating whether I had breezed through the text too briskly. Then I decided that I should go back and reread the entire collection again concerned that I might overlook some jewel or not merit the full attention necessary for each verse. After nearly 30 days, having finished my second pass at a far more patient pace, I returned to consider again this review and the insightful critique of marriage and relationships offered within its pages.

In a distant past, I considered myself anti-institutional and refused to honor the societal ideal of marriage. Any definition that involved rings and ceremonies was socially constructed to enforce a conformity to which I refused to subscribe. Some years later I was struck with an intense yearning to submit to an institution that I then thought helped reinforce long term commitments when both people announced their intention before a communal body who would then hold them to that pledge. Today as I stand a little bit older, wiser and more aware of how my choices affect my child and others around me, I live somewhere in the middle of those two polarities. Marriage is an institution in dire need of modern reform, but we must all and each of us find a way to create lasting commitments to one another which strengthen the ideals of community, family and nation.

Chinyelu’s text engages an evolutionary pathway displaying tiny milestones throughout which detail how she discovered herself as a lover, wife, mother, woman and daughter. While initially an artistic journey channeling a social critique of institutionalized marriage, the book also succeeds as a socio-political critique of imprisonment and criminalized bodies as Chinyelu charts her growing love for an inmate of one of America’s rapidly accumulating correctional facilities.

In “Vienna”, the author reaches into ancestral memory to contemplate how those whom battled against circumstance to complete the Great Migration might view their great grandchildren in the era of the prison industrial complex. The title piece elucidates the dull and abiding heartache involved in maintaining a love for someone which inspires her to “subvert concrete walls / barbed wire fences / laws that change on Sundays” until finally they are afforded the minor victory of a prison marriage kiss. In the back of the reader’s mind, one imagines it a victory short lived as the newly wedded husband is distanced from his wife once again by those same concrete walls and barbed wire fences.

Chinyelu divides each part of the book into subsections outlining for us those first inklings of her contraband affair which find us wading first through “The Murky Matter” where she wrestles with lessons of intimacy learned by loving both inside and outside of the walls of the prison even touching briefly upon the loneliness that might seek to draw her outside of the bounds of fidelity. “Mutterings to Myself” finds our first experience of the fractures forming within the relationship between the author and her muse as she wonders aloud if it is his prison experience or his own embattled personality which she is loving against.

In “…then comes science”, we find the relationship has reached critical mass resulting in one of the most poignant remarks on the internal oppressive dynamic of marriage to be found within the text which arrives by way of the selection “Noose on my finger” declaring “We play tug of war with it / I take it off / You put it back on. / We go back and forth / until my finger is bruised and battered. / I tell you / with my hand in this condition / I can’t write / You smile”. The subsection ends with her eventual escape from the marital institution with a new child in tow who becomes the birth of a new subsection entitled “the small axe” that opens with the magnificent act of reparation entitled “To the Father of My Son”. This selection echoes with the weary nostalgia of a relationship lost and their shared connection in the birth of a child ending with an olive branch which beckons “I still remember the love / that made me want you as the father of my child / and I hope that wherever life takes you / you find the peace you’re looking for / and I hope it opens the doors of your mind / so sankara can have another place he can walk into”.

Contraband Marriage closes with Chinyelu consummating her internal self discovery at the end of this stage of her journey leading a series of mantras to call us beyond our fears and contradictions in “The Grace of a Decision” chanting that “We can be heavy with gravity / – too overloaded with circuitry to pay attention to heart – / Doomed to die instead of do.” This is the substance of her assembled wisdom on a very specific type of love and marriage as she experienced it. This granular specificity does not negate its application to a wider conversation about marriage in its societal context.

Can a society that would seek to so wholly circumscribe the acts of bodies of black people from loving, living or learning in the context of prison really be the arbiter or keeper of such a sacred institution or should we find a way to define those boundaries for ourselves? Can we come up with a definition of marriage that makes sense to us though it may be entirely contraband and abnormal to society at large?

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A Romance In Lower Mathematics w/Mary Jane Burns (Taushia Griswold)

by The AOMuse

logic spoke thru my cold soul..
by conscience i was told
it made zero sense

please..my damaged amygdala
((which couldnt calculate
romance in lower math
even if it had
an abacus w/heart shaped beads))
concluded it didnt

i was the equivalent of self reliance
an innocence defiant
not so tender 9
the 1st time i witnessed
what i thought
was my mirrored reflection
a potentially crazy
well rounded dot
of perfection
oddball perception sum might say
w/an easy enough name
tho i called her ‘daisy blossom flower baby’ anyway
i watched her dribble
symbols of love over a squiggle
& by age 36 i found myself doin the same

and my
straight line
approach
ever willing victim
to the total sum
of tunnel vision
could sense
somehow the
attractive
magnitude
of his
messy
magnetism

i followed
thermoplastic
yellow road paint
as the wheel
of her heart
rolled on

left wedge
lever
and
inclined plane
in her path

simple
mechanisms
seeming only
to launch
her forward
towards
final decision

deciding
it better
that i fashion
myself
a prism
and imprison her
heart
in cages
of brilliant
spectral light

that if
someway
somewhere
she should
escape tonight
she would
know
the color
of my love
now shaded
blue

inloveofmathematics&writingart!

the aolinearthinkspeak


NaPoWriMo 9:30 ~ 23 Love Plays On My (i)Woo

by The AOMuse

1.
with your
camera shutter
audio turned up loud
snap her picture
from across a field
as she walks
progressively
closer towards you
being certain to catch
each blushing giggle
and averted gaze

2.
read her
pablo neruda
while attempting to
launch a kite
with no string
her spanish
your english
blending softer
into an
interlingual melody
the wind falling
silent to listen

3.
find the sun
seizing upon it
with your eyes
while not looking
directly into
the light
last one
to capture it
makes dinner
damn
she won again

4.
accidentally
brush a hand
across the corner
of the neck
when she isn’t
looking
and claim
you saw
an errant hair
upon her shoulder
even if
she wears it up

5.
pretend to
not comprehend
her flirtatious
innuendo
until boldness
and braggadacio
overfloweth
in her cup
and then
flood her senses
with some
subtle sheet talk
all your own

6.
touch
her
.
.
.
hair

7.
kiss
her
.
.
.
little
pink…y
finger

8.
serenade her
with an 80′s
slow jam mixtape
in your finest
vocal
imitation
of guy
keith sweat
shai
and
tony terry

9.
run a tub
full of
warm
soapy
water
.
.
.
and wash
the dishes

10.
call
her

11.
receive
the
kiss

12.
return
the
kiss

13.
swing her
by the waist
lift her up
in your arms
carry her
to the bedroom
lay her down
upon the sheets
.
.
.
and let her
take a nap

14.
wash
the
greens

15.
when her
mother calls
tell her
she’s in
good hands

16.
go to
her mother’s
house
and show
her your
hands
and leave
a copy
of your
id

17.
play pool
with her father

18.
walk the dog
so that the
dog won’t
walk you
(and that applies
to households
with no dogs)

19.
admire her
feet

20.
reassure her
that your admiration
of her feet
is by no means
an obsession

21.
giggle with
discomfort
as she gives you
a skeptical eye

22.
say her
name
often

23.
dance
with her
dance
for her
dance
by her
dance
to the
love play.


NaPoWriMo 2:30 ~ Love in Transit(ion)

by The AOMuse

with a gentle leaning
she presses her shoulder
into me
i am reading
jamaica kincaid’s
"my brother"
feigning indifference
pretending not to notice
her perceptible presence
but personally
i am swept up
again
the ride is bumpy
us together
in such close quarters
she folds her legs
crosswise
in the style of
a woman mature
whose long since learned
to own her hips
and not attempt
to sit
like those stick figure
white women
downtown
right leg draped
and laying
softly across
the left
both knees pointed
inward of my direction
i am still reading
jamaica kincaid’s
"my brother"
a passage which speaks to
the curious nature
of jamaica’s mother
for picking
at her children
in this moment
i let loose a broad smile
and some inaudible
laughter
i want her to think
it is because of
what i have read
i don’t look into
her face
to determine if she
is reading me
i feel her eyes
in my direction
perhaps she is
admiring my grizzled face
maybe she is simply
peering forward
down the corridor
out of the windshield
towards the outlay
of our journey
i won’t know
and i don’t ask
we sit here
in our silence together
navigating the bumpy ride
readjusting ourselves
in the only slightly
discomforting
seats
her shoulder still pressing
into me
i feel the heat
electric
lifting off skin
transmitting through
her jacket
like a semiconductor
and i wonder
how long will it last
"Next stop Jackon…"
the announcement
gives her cause
to unfold her legs
and arise
i am still reading
jamaica kincaid’s
"my brother"
i don’t raise my head
to see her off
but my heart waves
goodbye
perhaps i will be moved
to say hello in the future
even though i know you only
by your shoes
and the back of your head
and the bus you rode
downtown
14 Jeffery Express
was the number
of the shortest
relationship
i have known
in my lifetime

CTA-logo-thumb-300x301-44623


Kemetic Nasty w/Spoken Grenade

by The AOMuse

she was
kemetic nasty
osiris resurrecting
penis power
from fires of passion
that i burn
each night
upon my bedroom altar

he was
kemetic nasty
washed ash wednesday holy
in the crutch waters
of me
like a new day
born of my vulva.

together
we sacrifice
tonal meditations
invoking pagan god
and goddess
of brown earth
as we sing
sacred temple songs
hum harmonies
that hearken
wiccan sensuality
moonlight magic
and sensual alchemy
shining sun shine hot
like Mercury
in dizzy revolutions
of everlasting
daylight.

she drank my aqua vitae
we last life forever–
he lit my pilot
we combust forever–

i carved my name
on the walls
of her pyramid
and set booby traps
for foreign invaders.

i etched my insignia
on the contours
of his polyhedron
and pissed around the corners

no foreign invaders!!!

0


Quilting a New Year

by The AOMuse

Yet know this when contemplating | the New Year | ain’t nothing new | as is everything | in between | for should we be crafting newness in the middle of passing moments | remanufactured fabric | of our fractured past | forming this patchwork present | unfolding forward future | we are quilting the blackeyed pea | poems that ain’t quite finished | now pressed to publish | time won’t stall | we shall write on the run | and hope we get it right | before midnight calls our countdown | Ten | Nine | Eight…One

Though elated we are to be part of a timeline | continued | there is yet room for interruption | there is injustice | though slated we are to do | the same thing tomorrow | that was done just yesterday | before we procrastinated on ushering in | the newness of the year to come | let what is begun not be forced to wait | not be told to take its time while we imbibe spirit | and beckon forth a call to life | which wonders whom we are calling | because it has been here all along | waiting for us | to do something | that holds the promise of our appreciation

There are shreds and tatters | pieces of leftover denim | a bolt of kente | too short for a pair of pants | too long to waste on napkins | there is a sweater worn with time | showing the holes of history | in an elbow rubbed raw against the table | deep in thought | there is a kerchief inherited from the mother of your mother’s mother | monogrammed with initials in the old style | there are dashikis still holding the ravage of street protests and appearances before little children to service breakfast | there is history in a ballcap that clung to the head of a young man | thrust into college | to find his own way in this world | smell the blood of what has been rich in the birth of what is becoming | sew these pieces old and dying | into the quilted life of your New Year.

And then there was Royal Black.

Tekhen


Spiced Apple Walnut Delight

by The AOMuse

The Story Behind the Stomach

I am learning again to love apples.  As a child, I would go bananas over bananas; banana pudding, banana cream pie, chocolate covered frozen bananas, banana bread, banana smoothies, and on occasion banana flavored Now & Laters.  Apples were an afterthought.  They were always so plain and never seemed to change in flavor.  Only later did I learn of the incredible variety of apples that are available in the world today and the strange journey they have taken from a few wild ancestors to the 7,500 descendant cultivars that now presently exist.  Apples and I are now learning to get along just fine.

My heart of hearts still favors a room temperature Golden Delicious.  I am fast falling for the sloppy, juicy, crunchy, and snack worthy Honeycrisp.  The Fuji is a favorite of the morning oatmeal and stew pot due to my recent discovery of the Curried Apple Couscous recipe.  Granny Smith remains the best old biddy a pie ever seen.  If I had to cast a vote for the thickest and most flavorful skin, Red Delicious would top the ballot.  Ambrosia, Braeburn, Gala, McIntosh, and a vote of delight for those unnamed bitter variations that live and serve we connoisseurs of the hard cider community so well.

During childhood, one of my favorite desserts that my mother would prepare was her personal spin on the old fashioned Waldorf Salad.  Crisp sliced and peeled apples, water softened raisins, crunchy walnuts, carrots, and celery swimming with love in a bath of mayonnaise.  Some folks will wince at the mayonnaise, but believe me, it was a belly full of sumptuous.

When I first began my voyage back into the arena of cooking, one of the first dishes that I attempted was this wonderful Apple and Walnut Salad.  It was for the graduation pot luck at Jah’kaya’s school at the time, New Concept.  By the way, whatever happened to those pot lucks?  There was some good community interaction there.  I also made a taco salad for one of them which didn’t turn out well in my opinion, but still received warm reviews from other members of the community.

In any case, I do hope that you derive some enjoyment from my update to my mother’s old recipe.  I have dropped the mayonnaise in favor of Strawberry Yogurt.  Vegans can use either a soy yogurt, lime or citrus vinaigrette, or dijon mustard.  All of these substances are designed to tie the flavors of the fruits and vegetables together and can be used in greater or lesser amounts as your tastes prefer.

Ingredients

  • 4 Large Apples, chopped & cored
  • 1/3 c. Strawberry Yogurt
  • 4 1/2 c. Carrots, shredded
  • 1/2 c. Walnuts, chopped
  • 1/3 c. Raisins
  • 1 1/4 c. Celery, chopped
  • 1 tbsp. Lemon Juice
  • 1 dash All Spice
  • 1/2 c. Coconut, shredded

Directions

    1. Combine apples, carrots, walnuts, celery, & coconut in a salad bowl.
    2. Soak raisins in warm water for 10 minutes until sufficiently soft and moist.
    3. Drain & squeeze out any excess water.
    4. Combine remaining ingredients in salad bowl & toss until all items are sufficiently coated in mixture of yogurt, lemon juice, and all spice.
    5. Spice to taste.

Variations

For flavor variations, substitute Citrus Vinaigrette, Mayonnaise, Miracle Whip, Dijon Mustard, or Plain Yogurt for Strawberry Yogurt. Dried cherries may be used in place of raisins.


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