You may remember my friend Kara from previous posts. She nearly committed the fatal mistake of eating my apricot jam, but she is also the reason I like poetry today. One day, I had complained about poetry, when she said, “What’s not to like. Sixty seconds and you’re done.” (She then introduced me to poets that would become my favorites, like Wallace Stevens and Langston Hughes.)
One of the last meals Kara and I had together in Portland before I moved to Minneapolis was at the Portland Chapter of the Sons of Norway. In most of the cities 
I’ve lived, when it came time to move, in a panic I would try to cram everything that city had to offer into a final week (or day). While living in Portland, I was much better about taking advantage of the city, but after two years, still on my list was breakfast at the Sons of Norway – a Viking breakfast of pancakes held in the basement of the lodge. The pancakes – all you can eat – were quite good, plus the meal felt like it had leapt from an earlier era. Not bad for $7. We should have gone sooner. Continue reading
