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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 Christmas Carol by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
I hear along our street
Pass the minstrel throngs;
Hark! they play so sweet,
On their hautboys, Christmas songs!
Let us by the fire
Sing them till the night expire!
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.
Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.
Search narrowly the lines! they hold a treasure
Divine, a talisman, an amulet
That must be worn at heart. Search well the measure --
The words -- the syllables. Do not forget
The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor:
Through forests I'll follow, and where the sea flows,
Through ice and through iron, through armies of foes.
Annie of Tharaw, my light and my sun,
The threads of our two lives are woven in one.
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.
On afternoons, when baby boy has had a splendid nap,
And sits, like any monarch on his throne, in nurse's lap,
In some such wise my handkerchief I hold before my face,
And cautiously and quietly I move about the place;
Then, with a cry, I suddenly expose my face to view,
And you should hear him laugh and crow when I say
I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
One Christmas Eve a little maid
Into a fire-lit parlor strayed;
And there on a chair lay the pretty song
Her sister had sung her, -- Dingle-dong!
That rang like Christmas bells.
Dingle, dingle, ting, dong!
So sweet and clear, so warm and strong
Dingle, dingle, ting, dong!
Merry Christmas bells.
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!)
But love and night and sleep combine
In dreams to make her wholly mine.
A sure love lights her eyes' deep blue,
Her hands and lips are warm and true
Always the fact unreal seems,
And truth I find alone in dreams.
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.
Follow to the deep wood's weeds,
Follow to the wild-briar dingle,
Where we seek to intermingle,
And the violet tells her tale
To the odour-scented gale,
For they two have enough to do
Of such work as I and you.
Of books I sing, but not of those
Which any book collector knows, --
The priceless, rare editions, not, --
But volumes which the World forgot
And with them those who wrote, as well,
Before they had a chance to sell:
Am I a king, that I should call my own
This splendid ebon throne?
Or by what reason, or what right divine,
Can I proclaim it mine?
Good-night? ah! no; the hour is ill
Which severs those it should unite;
Let us remain together still,
Then it will be good night.
You who at my elbow sit,
By whose eyes my lines are lit,
How shall any poet's pen
Go amiss or falter when
Stars like these shine out above --
Beacons kindled there by Love --
Lighting up the paths below
Where he wanders to and fro.
How beautiful thou art!
In the sad silence of an hour,
Wherein I knew my heart
Would never more on earth have power
To win confession of thy love,
Into my soul
Thy image sank; and though above
Its surface roll
The angry tides of human life,
Yet nature, in the endless strife,
Shall leave, untouched, the tender grace
Of thy remembered face.
I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curl'd
Above the green elms, that a cottage was near,
And I said,
If there's peace to be found in the world,
A heart that is humble might hope for it here!
What we had not the leisure or language to speak,
We should find some ethereal mode of revealing,
And between us should feel just as much in a week
As others would take a millennium in feeling!
As long as men have eyes wherewith to gaze,
As long as men have eyes,
The sight of beauty to their sense shall be
As mighty winds are to a sleeping sea
When stormy billows rise.
And beauty's smile shall stir youth's ardent blood
As rays of sunlight burst the swelling bud;
As long as men have eyes wherewith to gaze.
Oh, you who read some song that I have sung --
What know you of the soul from whence it sprung?
Dost dream the poet ever speaks aloud
His secret thought unto the listening crowd?
Go take the murmuring sea-shell from the shore --
You have it's shape, its colour - and no more.
Maurineby Ella Wheeler Wilcox
I'd rather have my verses win
A place in common people's hearts,
Who, toiling through the strife and din
Of life's great thoroughfares, and marts,
May read some line my hand has penned;
Some simple verse, not fine, or grand,
But what their hearts can understand
And hold me henceforth as a friend -
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?
Dear heart of my heart,
Throbbing close to my breast
With fondest and truest pulsation,
List while I repeat
The old story, my sweet,
In the language of love's adoration!
O, life of my life,
All the purest and best
Of my manhood warms in thy presence,
No unworthy part
Of my life or my heart
Has a share in the sweet of love's essence.
Could I but measure my strength, by my love,
Were I as strong, as my heart's love is true,
I would pull down the stars, from the heavens above,
And weave them all into a garland for you.
And brighter, and better, your jewels should be
Than any proud queen's, that e'r dwelt o'er the sea.
Ay! richer and rarer, your gems, love, should be
Than any rare jewels that come from the sea.
If Heaven would hear my prayer,
My dearest wish would be,
Thy sorrows not to share
But take them all on me;
If Heaven would hear my prayer.
Strange fits of passion have I known:
And I will dare to tell,
But in the Lover's ear alone,
What once to me befell.
Then, -- if my heart's strength serve,
And through all and each
Of the veils I reach
To her soul and never swerve,
Knitting an iron nerve --
But nothing of these, my soul!
Nor castle, nor treasures, nor skies,
Nor the waves of the river that roll
With a cadence faint and sweet
In peace by its marble feet --
Nothing of these is the goal
For which my whole heart sighs.
'T is the pearl gives worth to the shell --
The pearl I would die to gain;
For there does my lady dwell,
My love that I love so well --
The Queen whose gracious reign
Makes glad my Castle in Spain.
As the old year sinks down in Time's ocean,
Stand ready to launch with the new,
And waste no regrets, no emotion,
As the masts and the spars pass from view.
Weep not if some treasures go under,
And sink in the rotten ship's hold,
That blithe bonny barque sailing yonder
May bring you more wealth than the old.
This is the treacherous month when autumn days
With summer's voice come bearing summer's gifts.
Beguiled, the pale down-trodden aster lifts
Her head and blooms again. The soft, warm haze
Makes moist once more the sere and dusty ways,
And, creeping through where dead leaves lie in drifts,
O lay thy hand in mine, dear!
We're growing old, we're growing old;
But Time hath brought no sign, dear,
That hearts grow cold, that hearts grow cold.
'T is long, long since our new love
Made life divine, made life divine;
But age enricheth true love,
Like noble wine, like noble wine.
You read it in my languid eyes,
And there alone should love be read;
You hear me say it all in sighs,
And thus alone should love be said.
Oh, the sight entrancing,
When morning's beam is glancing
O'er files arrayed
With helm and blade,
And plumes in the gay wind dancing!
The punctual tide draws up the bay,
With ripple of wave and hiss of spray,
And the great red flower of the light-house tower
Blooms on the headland far away.
Petal by petal its fiery rose
Out of the darkness buds and grows;
A dazzling shape on the dim, far cape,
A beckoning shape as it comes and goes.
Once in a while, in this world so strange,
To lighten our sad regrets,
We find a heart that is true through change --
A heart that never forgets.
Oh rare as a blossoming rose in December --
As a bird in an Arctic clime,
Is a heart, a heart that can remember
Through sorrow and change and time.
The waver of the summer-heat upon the drouth dry leas;
The shimmer of the thistle-drift adown the silences;
The gliding of the fairy-fire between the swamp and trees:
They qualified her presence as a sorrow may a dream --
The vague suggestion of a self; the glimmer of a gleam;
The actual unreal of the things that only seem.
He sings of love, whose flame illumes
The darkness of lone cottage rooms;
He feels the force,
The treacherous under-tow and stress,
Of wayward passions, and no less
The keen remorse.
At moments, wrestling with his fate,
His voice is harsh, but not with hate;
The brush-wood hung
Above the tavern door lets fall
Its bitter leaf, its drop of gall,
Upon his tongue.
But still the burden of his song
Is love of right, disdain of wrong;
Its master chords
Are Manhood, Freedom, Brotherhood;
Its discords but an interlude
Between the words.
These quiet autumn days,
My soul, like Noah's dove, on airy wings
Goes out, and searches for the hidden things,
Beyond the hills of haze.
Show me the way to that calm, perfect peace
Which springs from an inward consciousness of right;
To where all conflicts with the flesh shall cease,
And self shall radiate with the spirit's light.
Though hard the journey and the strife, I pray
Show me the way.
Labour with what zeal we will,
Something still remains undone,
Something uncompleted still
Waits the rising of the sun.
They came from a land beyond the sea,
And now o'er the western main
Set sail, in their good ships, gallantly,
From the sunny land of Spain.
Oh, where's the Isle we've seen in dreams,1
Our destin'd home or grave?
Thus sung they as, by the morning's beams,
They swept the Atlantic wave.
Love, when we met, 'twas like two planets meeting,
Strange chaos followed; body, soul, and heart
Seemed shaken, thrilled, and startled by that greeting,
Old ties, old dreams, old aims, all torn apart
And wrenched away, left nothing there the while
But the great shining glory of your smile.
Just drop down the curtains of your dear eyes,
Those eyes like a bright blue-bell,
And we will sail out under starlit skies,
To the land where the fairies dwell.
Beneath the softly falling snow
The wood whose shy anemones
We plucked such little while ago
Becomes a wood of Christmas trees.
Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary
Of lofty contemplation left to Time
By buried centuries of pomp and power!
At length -- at length -- after so many days
Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst
(Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie),
I kneel, an altered and an humble man,
Amid thy shadows, and so drink within
My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory.
O hemlock-tree! O hemlock-tree! how faithful are thy branches!
Green not alone in summer time,
But in the winter's frost and rime!
O hemlock-tree! O hemlock-tree! how faithful are thy branches!
The Little Match-Girl by Hans Christian Andersen
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.
Thousands of lights were burning on the green branches, and gaily-colored pictures, such as she had seen in the shop-windows, looked down upon her. The little maiden stretched out her hands towards them when the match went out. The lights of the Christmas tree rose higher and higher, she saw them now as stars in heaven; one fell down and formed a long trail of fire.The Mermaid's Song by Hannah Flagg Gould
Come, mariner, down in the deep with me,
And hide thee under the wave;
For I have a bed of coral for thee,
And quiet and sound shall thy slumber be
In a cell in the Mermaid's cave!
Who would be
A merman bold,
Under the sea,
With a crown of gold,
On a throne?
Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and vallies, dales and fields,
Woods or steepy mountain yields.
And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cup of flowers and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle.
She can dare the wind and sunshine in the most bravado manner,
And after hours of sailing she has merely cheeks of rose;
Old Sol himself seems smitten and at most will only tan her,
Though to everybody else he gives a danger-signal nose.
The birds must know. Who wisely sings
Will sing as they;
The common air has generous wings.
Songs make their way.
No messenger to run before,
No mention of the place or hour
To any man;
No waiting till some sound betrays
A listening ear;
No different voice, no new delays,
If steps draw near.
O, why do I hold thee, my fair, only rose,
My bright little treasure -- so dear;
And love thee a thousand times better than those,
In thousands, that lately were here?
Draw close the lattice and the door!
Shut out the very stars above!
No other eyes than mine shall pore
Upon this thrilling tale of love.
As, since the book was open last,
Along its dear and sacred text,
No other eyes than thine have passed --
Be mine the eyes that trace it next!
A humble wild-rose, pink and slender,
Was plucked and placed in a bright bouquet,
Beside a Jacqueminot's royal splendour,
And both in my lady's boudoir lay.
When should lovers breathe their vows?
When should ladies hear them?
When the dew is on the boughs,
When none else are near them;
When the moon shines cold and pale,
When the birds are sleeping,
When no voice is on the gale,
When the rose is weeping;
Be not impatient in delay,
But wait as one who understands;
When spirit rises and commands,
The gods are ready to obey.
The river seeking for the sea
Confronts the dam and precipice,
Yet knows it cannot fail or miss;
You will be what you will to be!
Give us that grand word
woman once again,
And let's have done with
lady: one's a term
Full of fine force, strong, beautiful, and firm,
Fit for the noblest use of tongue or pen;
And one's a word for lackeys. One suggests
The Mother, Wife, and Sister! One the dame
Whose costly robe, mayhap, gives her the name.
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.