Hickory Smoked Turkey

Dear All: I will be participating again in the January Small Stones challenge through Writing Our Way Home. I'll be posting my small stones throughout the month of January. Check it out and join me! I'd love to hear what you write. http://www.writingourwayhome.com/small-stones/mindful-writing-challenge-jan-14/

This is Thanksgiving I. Four o’clock I ring my parents’ doorbell my dad answers wearing a red, green and blue plaid shirt. He hugs me      his cheeks warm from the outdoors takes the bowl of stuffing and says: You missed it.   Your sister choked on a piece of pineapple and your brother gave her the Heimlich. I sigh; take off my jacket as my dad brings the stuffing to my mom in the kitchen. I fail to notice he has no pants on. I am used to this. II. An hour later Dad yells: Turkey’s done.   Come get a picture. I walk out the back door to where my dad stands next to the Weber grill. He ceremoniously takes the lid off pretends to be surprised at how lovely the crisp but tender bird looks. Get closer, Stef. He lifts the turkey off the grill. I lean in and take a photo and ten more after that. This is Thanksgiving. III. I drink too much wine as I sit at the table and fill my plate. I talk loudly. I share too much. My six ye

It's an odd feeling when your neighbors move and you are left behind, if only temporarily.  It's even more uncomfortable when the building you lived in housed some of the nicest, most intelligent, eccentric and humble people you'd ever want to meet, let alone share a building with.  The fact that we are all being forced out by the new owners of our building doesn't make for a good feeling either This week, our historic carriage house is being emptied out and we are all scattering across the city into our new apartments.  While I only lived here for 1 1/2 years, these neighbors of mine left me with some fantastic memories.  Off and on for 15 years, I've lived in apartment buildings and I've never felt a real connection to any of my neighbors.  That all changed when I moved to Meade Place in 2012.  The night the lease was signed our building manager, a man well into his late 80s, poured us a glass of wine and wished us well.  The building manager's apartment

Last night I asked my writing class to describe their writing voice.  While they were working on the exercise I took a whack at it as well. **** My writing voice tastes like sugared mint and rum. My writing voice looks like my grandma as she sat in her recliner, reading the Detroit Free Press and listening to the Tigers on the radio. My writing voice smells like coffee with sugar.  I always drink it black. My writing voice sounds like a meditation or pure sarcasm. My writing voice feels like the afghans my mom crocheted, laying on the couch.

An important read! http://www.post-gazette.com/stories/opinion/perspectives/death-of-an-adjunct-703773/

Sadly, Black Coffee Press has closed its doors. You can still purchase my book, "Border Theory," and other great BCP titles online at Amazon, Barnes and Noble and Powell's.   http://blackcoffeepress.net/

  First and Last Date The moment he said “ I'll be the one smoking at the bar reading the "Tao of Winnie the Pooh,” I should have known. I should have faked an illness and cancelled the date. I should have. Instead, I took the stool close to the door leaned in close and listened. Listened to the story of his heartbreak his time spent in a Buddhist monastery. All the while, I kept thinking: He spent time in a Buddhist monastery. He can't be that bad. But, each time I leaned in closer noticed the scent of cigarettes, stale coffee and beer looked at each pore on his face and pieced together the fact that he looked nothing like his profile picture I never once believed that the date would be going anywhere. No matter how good his stories were. After two hours of listening never quite being heard I sat still and kept drinking. When he offered to walk me home even though he lived a block a

Tonight as I walked to buy  a bottle of wine I crossed my favorite  pedestrian bridge and took in the summer air of Pittsburgh.

It's like "Wife Swap"... only way better! Listen to four local writers, have some snacks and donate to a good cause.  See you on August 20th.

While drying my hair this morning, I felt hopeful for the day to come.  The sun was bright, birds were singing outside the window and I had just returned from a family vacation in Northern Michigan.  The mere seconds I basked in optimism for the day were thwarted by my own negative thinking.  I began to wonder: "Why would I love my life? I have a low-paying job that forces me to not only work full-time during the day but also at night, I'm a few pounds overweight, the apartment is messy, I don't have enough money and I haven't figured a damn thing out yet! What is there to love?" As soon as I caught myself in the downward spiral of negative thinking I re-routed myself back onto the optimism highway.  I was feeling inspired, damn it! Most of what I harbored on above is true, but what is wrong is my viewpoint, my own outlook on life.  Yes, I have a low-paying job and have to work multiple gigs to make ends meet but I am teaching, a vocation that feels right to m

It's like "Wife Swap"... only way better! Listen to four local writers, have some snacks and donate to a good cause.  See you on August 20th.

I've never been one to dread birthdays.  Turning a year older just meant, I turned a year older.  A few years ago, when I hit 31, I became the cliche.  I noticed my body began to change and it was no longer "easy" to lose those extra pounds.  Suddenly, having nachos for dinner, three nights in a row, wasn't a good idea. Recently, a student of mine wrote about the moment she realized her luck in life had run out.  I was immediately drawn to the piece because of the place I'm at in my own life.  In my mid-thirties, my perspectives, goals and realities have changed in a way I didn't expect.  My twenties, although there  were moments of distress, sadness or frustration, were seemingly smooth. I earned two master's degrees, moved to a different state, found work easily and moved along the days.  I spent time with good friends, ate good food, drank good beer and rarely worried about my future health or my future in general. Things would work out, th

Interesting article about the role writing plays in our own healing. http://www.nytimes.com/2012/03/25/magazine/why-talk-therapy-is-on-the-wane-and-writing-workshops-are-on-the-rise.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0

It's like "Wife Swap"... only way better! Listen to four local writers, have some snacks and donate to a good cause.  See you on August 20th.

Registration Extended to June 24!  A Few Spaces Left! Join local author, Stefanie Wielkopolan, for 4 workshop sessions at East End Book Exchange starting Sunday, June 30. Share your work, get valuable feedback, listen to the work of others, read published pieces and discuss what writing means to you. This all levels workshop will focus mainly on memoir, creative non-fiction, poetry and short story. Be a part of this collaborative, fun, and inspiring workshop. Cost: $45, prior registration required by June 22 E-mail: swielkopolan@gmail.com for questions/registration/payment Dates: 4 Sundays, starting June 30 from 11:00-12:30 at East End Book Exchange in Bloomfield http://www. eastendbookexchange.com/shop/ eastend/splash.html http://www.sampsoniaway.org/ pittsburghliterarycalendar/ event.php?EventID=1004

Are you ready for this? Come to East End Book Exchange on June 8 for the time of your life. http://www.eastendbookexchange.com/shop/eastend/splash.html

Check it out! All awesome titles at Black Coffee Press are on sale!

I am teaching "Writing the Short Story" and "Writing Creative Non-Fiction" starting June 3 at CCAC in the North Side.  http://www.ccac.edu/default.aspx?id=137111   Join me!

Benadryl makes me dream of babies. Sorry to make you feel awkward. Feel like I just got here. Teacher in need of more education. Sarcastic poet lives with diabetic cat.

One night a week I teach a non-fiction writing class at the local community college.  The assignment I gave my students was to write as many "six word memoirs" as they could. The only rule was that it could only have six words.  Here are a few of my own. I moved back to Pittsburgh...again. Three cats and too many books. Still trying to figure it out. Can't believe I dated him...twice. Wading through all the loose ends. Summer in Europe, thirteen years ago.

At dinner tonight, my partner and I began listing all of the grown up things we have yet to figure out in our lives.  Doctoral programs, writing projects, where to live, acupuncture schools, life insurance, new car tires, taxes and absent 401k accounts littered our page of things we had no answer to yet. We looked at each other, as if to say, we will never get there. As we listed all of the things to be scared of in the future, our faces began to frown, our chests tightened and we felt discouraged, even ashamed that at 33 and 35, we didn't have it all figured out yet. I talked about how I felt disconnected from my creative self.  I am a poet and haven't written a new piece in a few months.  I was fortunate to have my book, "Border Theory," published by Black Coffee Press in 2011 but I haven't found the thread or creative push to create another complete project.  I feel stuck and overwhelmed by all of the unfinished business I have yet to complete or conquer. 

Hope to see you at East End Book Exchange !

Check out this upcoming reading!  It's going to be a great gathering of local writers with some wine and snacks to boot.

Small Stones: February 6 Even the cats have grown bored of me.

Small Stones: February 4 Having bronchitis is like the sleazy man at the bar who just won't leave you alone.

Small Stones: January 31 Moments of peace and gratitude are plentiful when I remember to pay attention.

Small Stones: January 30 Salamander feet make me laugh.

Small Stones: January 29 Subway tiles      no longer white line the ceiling and walls of the tunnel.

Small Stones: January 28 Each morning you enter the classroom with the bravado and humble heart of a toddler. Your quirks are displayed in bright colors and bold patterns. There are no apologies. This morning you swung in on a Barenaked Ladies album singing of break-ups and dysfunction. You made me smile. You are my friend. You are my teaching partner. You are my mentor.

Small Stones: January 27 Back and forth      like two drunks      playing ping pong we try to determine where our Sunday brunch will take place. "I'm hungry, I want a buffet." I argue, thin lipped and stern. Your defense      "Buffets are things to be scared of.  They attract old people." though creative and true angers me in my low blood sugar rage. Sundays are meant for meditative practice focused on peace and health but all I can set my third eye on is a buffet of french toast.

Small Stones: January 25 Together we breathe      as we try to figure this life out.

Small Stones: January 24 When told it was snowing the students gathered in front of the window that overlooks Penn Avenue. Little hands held on to the windowsill and watched as each flake floated past. They watched. They smiled. They were together. There is still so much I need to learn.

Small Stones: January 21 Snowflakes      the size of feathers fell around me as I ran to the car. The melted snow gathered in my hair reminded me to hold on to the life in front of me.

Small Stones: January 20 Urban sprawl      annoyances and medians continue to spread in America.

Small Stones: January 19 We sat in your apartment to celebrate your birthday over plates of chicken, rice and fruit. There was wine. There was jazz music. There was laughter. There was love for friends      and Todd the brown lhaso apso from across the hall. That damn Todd made our night.

Small Stones: January 18 Every morning the dense branches of the tree scrape against the worn window of my apartment. As the sound continues it reminds me that I am alive and unusually annoyed.

Small Stones: January 17 Philosophically speaking toddlers are like little yogis dressed in sweatpants.

Small Stones: January 16 At home sick      I look out to bare branches of the front yard tree. Inside is a cardinal      red feathers moving up and down left and right. In my lap the fat cat watches with me. There is nothing else to do.

Small Stones: January 15 On Being a Preschool Teacher During the Day and a College Writing Instructor at Night Regardless of time      no one laughs at my jokes.

Small Stones: January 14 Gratitude Tonight for whatever reason we have no real worries.

Small Stones: January 13 Truth: The "Writing Research Papers" textbook      sitting on the chair will not be read tonight. Mob Wives is on.

Small Stones: January 12 He listens to 1930s jazz on NPR as he boils water for string beans and broccoli. On a Michigan shaped cutting board he slices fresh garlic. 100 year old doors      salvaged from Heinz's Point Breeze mansion separate us but through cracks in the doorway I know exactly what I see.

Small Stones: January 11 At a stoplight on Fifth Avenue      I look up through my passenger window and see an apartment      on the fourth floor      lit up with a man wearing a pirate hat. It is at this moment that I realize I am no longer young.

Small Stones: January 10 When a thirty-three year old      pre-school teacher with moderate OCD and a fear of germs helps toddlers learn to use the toilet      her days are comprised of consistently dodging pee.

Small Stones: January 9 Wednesday Morning I open the classroom      turn on the lights place the paint on the table and look out the wide window. Colors ascend orange, pink and blue as waitresses at the diner next door serve eggs and bacon to hungry customers. There is joy in this moment and where my feet      are planted.

Small Stones: January 8 After nap she sat next to her friend and began eating snack. As she ate her animal crackers she looked at me      mouth full of cookies and said, "I'm a happy kid." Later, she asked me, "Are you happy?" I knelt beside her and replied "Yes. Yes, I am."

Small Stones: January 7 The black and white cat      carries in his mouth a frayed blue octopus around the dining room. His fat stomach sways from side to side as he chirps and speaks of all the good to come.

Small Stones: January 6 The blue, red, green and yellow orbs that trim my window offer more than light. Memories of my parents' bar at Christmas      are held in each bulb. The jukebox that played Bing Crosby      the tinsel that trimmed the counter are images that swirl in the light. * As a child my parents owned a bowling alley in Michigan.  Some of my most fond memories are of the Christmas parties they held in the bar.  Employees and regulars of the bowling alley would show up, eat, drink, sing and laugh in the overly decorated bar.  These memories are with me tonight.*

Small Stone: January 5 Waiting in line      for a coffee and mocha my friend and I decide this winter can only be warmed by a morning of sun to come.

Small Stone: January 4 The winter branches against the orange and white January sky bleed into the rooftop snow.

Small Stone: January 3 The vegetable garden      overgrown with ice      rests against the backyard fence.

Small Stone: January 2 Cobwebs     pulled to expose     abstract designs remind me to take the lead of the silver cat and close my eyes.

Small Stone for January 1 The water boils     as sounds of the neighbor     shoveling the snow     from last night's fall fills the kitchen. I am present.