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hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia = The fear of long words.
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Just The Worlds Best Caesar Salad Dressing Recipe
This has nothing to do with literature or words, but this stuff is sheer poetry to lettuce. I will not order caesar salad in a restaurant or buy caesar salad dressing in the supermarket. In my opinion, nothing touches this recipe, and it is very easy and inexpensive to make. Mix it all together and let it sit a few hours in the fridge to let the flavors mix. Toss it with romaine lettuce (or any lettuce) and croutons. This is so good, it would be truly selfish not to share it with my readers. Enjoy!
1 c. mayonnaise (Hellman's works best. Miracle Whip doesn't have the right flavors for this recipe.)
2 fresh garlic cloves, crushed
1/4 c. half and half cream or milk
1/3 c. grated parmesan cheese
2 tbsp. freshly squeezed lemon juice
1 tbsp. dijon mustard
2 tsp. worcestershire sauce
Salt and pepper to taste (it is still very good if you omit the salt)
2 anchovie fillets, chopped (optional)
Featured SelectionsA Fable by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Some cawing Crows, a hooting Owl,
A Hawk, a Canary, an old Marsh-Fowl,
One day all met together
To hold a caucus and settle the fate
Of a certain bird (without a mate),
A bird of another feather.
A mountain soul, she shines in crystal air
Above the smokes and clamors of the town.
Her pure, majestic brows serenely wear
The stars for crown.
We call you, we implore you,
Come to us now;
Help us to rest the weary head,
From which the strength and power have fled,
And soothe the aching brow.
The sunlight that makes of the heaven
A pathway for sylphids to throng;
The wind that makes harps of the forests
For spirits to smite into song,
Are the image and voice of a vision
That comforts my heart and makes strong.
I want more lives in which to love
This world so full of beauty,
I want more days to use the ways
I know of doing duty;
I ask no greater joy than this
(So much I am life's lover),
When I reach age to turn the page
And read the story over.
(O love, stay near!)
The rising moon has hid the stars;
Her level rays, like golden bars,
Lie on the landscape green,
With shadows brown between.
And silver white the river gleams,
As if Diana in her dreams,
Had dropt her silver bow
Upon the meadows low.
The sun is set; the swallows are asleep;
The bats are flitting fast in the gray air;
The slow soft toads out of damp corners creep,
And evening's breath, wandering here and there
Over the quivering surface of the stream,
Wakes not one ripple from its summer dream.
There's a sad loneliness about my heart, --
A deep, deep solitude the spirit feels
Amid this multitude. The things of art
Pall on the senses -- from its pageantry,
Loathing, my eye turns off; and my ear shrinks
From the harsh dissonance that fills the air.
Flood of stars that hold your course
High across the night,
Serried lustres numberless
As the souls that Godward press
In continual flight,
From what flaming wildfire source,
Shimmering river of the skies,
Tide of light,
Do your waves arise?
At westward window of a palace gray,
Which its own secret still so safely keeps
That no man now its builder's name can say,
I lie and idly sun myself to-day,
Dreaming awake far more than one who sleeps,
Serenely glad, although my gladness weeps.
Oh! it was fill'd with words of flame,
With all the wishes wild and dear,
Which love may write, but dares not name,
Which woman reads, but must not hear!
Romance, who loves to nod and sing
With drowsy head and folded wing
Among the green leaves as they shake
Far down within some shadowy lake,
To me a painted paroquet
Hath been -- a most familiar bird --
Taught me my alphabet to say,
To lisp my very earliest word
While in the wild-wood I did lie,
A child -- with a most knowing eye.
I hold it true that thoughts are things
Endowed with bodies, breath, and wings,
And that we send them forth to fill
The world with good results - or ill.
Labour with what zeal we will,
Something still remains undone,
Something uncompleted still
Waits the rising of the sun.
O strange, hushed fellowship of those
Who tread a darkened star,
Who breathe the fragrance of the rose
And thrill with pain instead
Of that old joy, long dead!
Down in the valley come meet me to-night,
And I'll tell you your fortune truly
As ever 'twas told, by the new moon's light,
To young maidens shining as newly.
The beautiful humanities
Of Nature in the simplest dress,
Speak to our sweetest sympathies
Far more than language can express.
I saw a ragged little boy
Run to a withered dame's embrace,
To welcome her with bounding joy,
And fondly press her haggard face.
The Princess's Fingernail by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
They made her a grave, too cold and damp
For a soul so warm and true;
And she 's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp,
Where, all night long, by a fire-fly lamp,
She paddles her white canoe.
All through the Castle of High-bred Ease,
Where the chief employment was do-as you-please,
Spread consternation and wild despair.
The queen was wrlnging her hands and hair
The maids of honor were sad and solemn;
The pages looked blank as they stood in column;
The court-jester blubbered,
The cook in the kitchen dropped tears in the stew
And all through the castle went sob and wail,
For the princess had broken her fingernail:
The beautiful Princess Red-as-a-Rose,
Bride-elect of the Lord High-Nose,
Broken her fingernail down to the quick --
Thou seem'st to solve the eternal unity
That holds us all. How far, and dim, and deep,
Bathed in the separate sanctity of sleep --
Lost in thy wide forgetting do we lie!
O, lest that dim abyss, where Memory
Beats her disabled wing, and hope is not,
Point to yet wilder deeps, unearth our thought
In thy far glances!
Wan-visaged thing! thy virgin leaf
To me looks more than deadly pale,
Unknowing what may stain thee yet, --
A poem or a tale.
Who can thy unborn meaning scan?
Can Seer or Sibyl read thee now?
No, -- seek to trace the fate of man
Writ on his infant brow.
In my dream last night it seemed I stood
With a boy's glad heart in my boyhood's wood.
The beryl green and the cairngorm brown
Of the day through the deep leaves sifted down.
The rippling drip of a passing shower
Rinsed wild aroma from herb and flower.
O little feet! that such long years
Must wander on through hopes and fears,
Must ache and bleed beneath your load;
I, nearer to the Wayside Inn
Where toil shall cease and rest begin,
Am weary, thinking of your road!
When I am dead, if some chastened one,
item, or hearing it said
That my play is over, and my part done,
And I lie asleep in my narrow bed --
If I could know that some soul would say,
Speaking aloud or silently,
In the heat, and burden of the day,
She gave a refreshing draught to me;
When Love is kind,
Cheerful and free,
Love's sure to find
Welcome from me.
But when Love brings
Heartache or pang,
Tears and such things --
Love may go hang!
The spirits of the forest,
That to the winds give voice --
I lie the livelong April day
And wonder what it is they say
That makes the leaves rejoice.
You never can tell when you send a word,
Like an arrow shot from a bow
By an archer blind, be it cruel or kind,
Just where it may chance to go.
It may pierce the breast of your dearest friend.
Tipped with its poison or balm,
To a stranger's heart in life's great mart,
It may carry its pain or its calm.