For today’s prompt, think of a favorite regional cuisine, make that the title of your poem, and then, write the poem. For instance, you may title your poem something like “Brunswick Stew,” “Deep Dish Pizza,” or “Jambalaya,” though the poem doesn’t exactly have to be about food.
Here’s my attempt:
“Jambalaya”
Just add a little more hot sauce,
because flavor is a good thing,
and you don’t want spice at a loss,
so add a little more hot sauce.
Others will know you are the boss
when you make their taste buds sing.
Just add a little more hot sauce,
because flavor is a good thing.
*****
Pad Thai
A night in
In the daggies
Watching my soapies
Cat by the feet
Blanket pulled up tight
Tea-towel cradling
The local Thai shop’s
Signature dish
Roadside Picnics
Roadside picnics are impossible in space.
There are no handy fields of wild-flowers to entice a weary traveler
to pull the spaceship over. No way to eat fried chicken
through the space suit’s visor. On the upside, no ants plague
the picnickers while they hang around in space.
Canning
Everyone has a canning story.
My Mom’s canner was old
and she always put two
broken matchsticks in the lid
to make it work right.
She always cautioned me
to watch it carefully
and would tell and retell
the story of the town lady
who went off to read a magazine
and the lid blew a hole in her
kitchen ceiling.
Mostly green beans and
tomatoes from the first
mess until the final
batch when we pulled
up and composted the
vines.
All winter green beans
and vegetable soup–
just enough to warm
our days.
Chaumont Bay Beer Battered Perch
Fisherman favor
Chaumont Bay on ice,
sunglasses shade sun dazzle,
whiskey shots warm inside out,
against the wind, eyes on tip-ups,
orange flags flutter,
frigid temperature no concern.
Wiggles of wax worms
lure perch from underwater rocky slopes
off Point Salubrious.
Perch bucket full,
catch of the day local restaurant fare -
every night fish fry – not just for Friday.
Fresh perch fillets, beer batter,
pan sizzle golden brown -
all you can eat
beer battered perch
savor Chaumont Bay on ice.
Raclette
Residing in Lucerne
Strolling on Lake Geneva
I was having the time of my life
In serene, scenic Switzerland
Dudt invited us for dinner
In his cozy little house one evening
Small little rooms, comfortable sofas
A bar elaborate
I tasted some wines my husband indulged in scotch
Then it was time for food
I expected slabs of meat, some boiled vegetables
But I was in for a surprise
Out came a little ceramic pot with skewers inserted
Down below there was a small flame
Kind of like a fondue
The cheese was of a special kind
Raclette it was called, the ensemble elaborate
We stuck the skews into the potatoes in the pot
Drew them out and cut that on the plate
Then on little trays we put slices of Raclette
And held them turn by turn
On the little, ever-burning flame
Then poured the part melted cheese
On the waiting potatoes
Garnished it pepper and salt
And chewed on them with relish
The cheese simply melted in our mouths
Ummm..yum yum yum
I could go on forever
But I’m drooling, don’t intend the pun
Crème Brule
By
Arrvada
Every place I eat
No matter how famous or discrete
If I see this item on the menu
Nothing else can be ordered in place
I love the crisp and crunch
Of a perfect fired sugar glaze
The smooth and creamy texture
That is firm and soft
Each bite I savor
The perfect blend of cream and sweet
My favorite dessert I always eat
Lovely Crème Brule
Wild Georgia Shrimp
Waiting on the deck
overlooking the river that goes
where the shrimp slept last night,
My Wild Georgia Shrimp
I’m starving, mouth-watering ready
to taste their succulent sweetness.
The evening sun sets the shrimpboats aglow
in shell pink, a tidal smell of muck and marsh
swirl in my nose.
Like a pig gone home, I could
snort and wallow in my home away from home.
I’d travel a million miles and wait for
My Wild Georgia Shrimp
Clambake
Little necks or Mahogany’s best
but Cherry Stone will do
no less than ten bags for sure
Fire up the pot and dump them in
Pop a beer, grab a chair
Let the waiting begin
While the kiddos play volleyball
the old folks take a snooze in the sun
as the salty brine permeates the air
Check the pot, check it twice
until the shells are nice and open
then dump them out into the bowl
and let the feasting begin
Don’t forget the essential tiny fork
and the requisite bib or napkin;
the butter likes to drip
Take a clam, spear it through
then send it for a swim
in melted golden delight
swished and swirled for maximum coating
Careful now, and swiftly connect
fork with waiting mouth
and hope your bliss is not marred with grit (blecch)
Repeat until completely stuffed
Patlican Dolmasi
Shaped like elongated pears
and best shopped for early
on market day when stalls
are still shaded and cool
As eye seeks small size
practiced fingers can tell if
purple skin’s smooth enough
if the flesh beneath is unbruised
Back home in the kitchen they are
washed and slit open; seeds all
scraped out, they are stuffed
with rice and pine nuts
Brick-oven baked until
the luscious smell makes
tongues anticipate the taste
and of elegant eggplant, stuffed
Back to offer up something a bit more serious. :-]
Pierogi
(She tried, she claims,
to get it right)
pay attention!
such many
handfuls
(whose hand?)
trochę (a what?)
some, little bit,
pinch (how many
fingers in a pinch?)
trochę only (no
measuring cups
or spoons) mix
fingers ‘til feeling
right (right?)
She never learned
the recipe dying
with her mother-in-law
“Watermelon”
We drove down to Rush Springs,
sun already intense on Saturday
morning, for the Watermelon Festival.
And danced.
Ok, so I know the line meter is off a tad. There is a rhythm but probably all in my own head…
and it did end up to be about food… This is a sweet snack treat in Ottawa when the Rideau Canal is open for skating.
Beaver Tails
Add a little sugar and
spice is nice, some cinnamon
and lemon, don’t think twice,
everyone’s life could use some spice.
In winter tourists visit our river
looking for Beaver Tails, just a sliver
they fry dough and butter it, sprinkle it twice
with cinnamon and sugar, just a little spice
remember that lemon, it’s always nice.
Some places, they call them elephant ears
but that’s not the treat Canucks hold dear,
after a day of cold weather and snow
when temperature gets to thirty below
along the Canal everyone will go,
when they see those huts they skate real slow,
take a deep breath what do they smell?
Beaver Tails, the kind the vendors all sell.
Slathered in butter, and fried like bread,
a shake of cinnamon
and sugar like snow,
don’t forget the lemon
then eat real slow.
It tastes so good just like I said,
not your usual ol’ plain fried bread.
Carol A. Stephen
April 18, 2012
Glory Greens
Momma says our blood
oughta be green by now.
Momma used to slice
into an avocado like a surgeon,
give it a twist akin to Sister’s hips
on Saturday nights,
suckle the meat on her tongue
with lemon juice
and a dash of paprika,
and serve every dish
with a heap of kale that slipped
eel-slide down your throat.
Momma says our ancestors
carried sesame seeds for luck,
tucked in the hollows of ears
for safe keeping—that if we raked
the Atlantic Ocean floor
we’d find black bones and benne
waiting to be baked into sweet
and savory wafers.
Momma says okra
was meant to keep
our hearts open like palms—
passed out as it has been passed down,
filling us up, reminding us
what it means to be full.
Momma used to fill a pot with water
and tell us everything can be gumbo
just like anything could be goulash
if you added potatoes.
Momma used to slice collards
like plantation fields, just so.
Momma says rice is best dirty,
and the one difference
between cornbread and cake
is only honey
and skip the greens.
Just a strange couple
You, main course, me, fruit
What such couple we are!
Sour, sweet, everyday.
Three Little Pigs in a Blanket
Three little Pigs in a Blanket
crashed a pajama party.
One started playing the trumpet.
Three Little Pigs in a Blanket
pulled out a rope and tried to jump it;
their names were Zeik, Bo and Marty.
Three Little Pigs in a Blanket
crashed a pajama party.
(c) jh 4/20/12
The World of Cuisine
I’ve had the best of steaks in Canada
A creamy Napoleon in France
Real Italian pizza
And German knockwurst
Smothered in sauerkraut
A sampler plate from Mexico
A snack of Chinese noodles
An authentic gyro from Morocco
And the best Japanese sushi in the land
All in the same day
At the Food and Wine Festival
At Epcot
Man, was I full
I’m Done Stewing over this Assignment – for Now
Do Belgian’s waffle?
Do the French fry?
Does Boston bake beans and
cream chocolate pie?
Do the Irish stew?
(Sometimes I do.)
Do you?
Maltese Coffee
If I were your coffee…
There would be tingling anticipation
In the air
There would be love in your eyes
Until I was ready
My scent would waft and fill you with
Want, expectation, need.
You would hold me in your hands
Like a treasure, a gift
You would have me slowly,
Gently, delicately…
At first.
If I were your coffee,
I would be ready.
Garlicville
There’s a place on the prairies
Where Ukrainians abound,
And the strong smell of sausage
Fills the air all around.
The perogies are boiled
In the pots of each home,
And cabbage rolls will greet
You wherever you do roam.
But when I came to this place
What left a strong impression
Was one particular spice:
The Ukrainian obsession.
There’s garlic in the air,
And that’s the status quo.
If you can’t take the smell,
My friend, then you’d better go.
Wow, what a tour de force! I think Pablo himself would have loved this one. You’ve done him proud.
Sorry Arika, I enjoyed your pizza too,
but this comment has printed in the wrong place. I’ll have another try,
Inconsumable pizza
Dusty dough left to dry
Red sludge, yellow cheese
Appetising yesterday
American pizza:
Eat it fast, or it won’t be food
But breakfast it can be
Tuber Roots and Codfish
(Para Mami)
Today I prepared
yucca, spoonflower,
and yautia.
They mingled in the air
with the onions,
avocado and codfish.
Flavor sorely missed your sterling spoon waltz.
The debate was on for dinner
On our second night in China
Everybody jet-lagged
Everybody cranky
Some wanted McDonalds
Some just wanted sleep.
I want Peking Duck in Peking
Decisive words dropped
Into a gap in the argument
Soon Yi said
She knew a place
We ate that night at
Yellow satin tables
On yellow satin chairs
Peonies in patterns
Picked out with white silk thread
And lanterns in the doorways
Only we spoke English
We pointed at pictures
And duck was set before us
Petals of poultry
Fanned back like wings in flight
From the twisted column of the neck
And the mahogany-baked head
Puffs of pancakes
Onion slivers, pale, green,
Plum sauce, sweet
Appeared on small gold plates
I slipped a slice from the platter
Teeth sank past
A crisp whisper of fat
Grandma’s soup
Grandma’s soup was the best
But her fried cucumber’s
Their was no contest.
I loved to watch my grandma cook
I learned a lot from her too.
Seems she was always in the kitchen
Cooking and cleaning each time i
went to visit.
I’ve learnt to cook a lot through
the years but i never could make
Grandma’s soup the way she did.
Samantha Tinney
Bangers and Mash
I couldn’t help but notice,
your sausages are not nice,
and your creamed potatoes
smell an awful lot like cat.
It seven in the morning,
it came without warning,
and now I’m stuck
sitting here and that
is not what I want for breakfast.
Make me some eggs at long last.
Coffe’d be nice.
I don’t want to sound like a brat,
But where are the seasonings?
Can’t you hear my pleadings?
Bland is as bland does
and just makes me more fat.
So please, if you please,
remove this plate of grease,
hand me my coat
and hand my my hat.
I’ll see you round, rat-a-tat.
Kambu Koozhu
Children lie on their bellies, reach for cobs
of tall grasses growing in dry sluices,
seeds burst on fingers like confetti of pearl drops.
They brew sunshine, mix in breeze of the hills,
they walk past dry farmland chewing juicy stalks,
take time to sit on haunches and trace paths of snakes
which heave out of rocks that breathe silent heat.
They carry bouquet of grasses with cones of millet
for their mothers to cook mid noon broth.
Kambu – pearl millet / bajra
Koozhu – porridge
Southern Fried Picnic
Red and white checkered blanket on the ground
honeysuckle breeze lifts your auburn hair.
Under a shade tree, the best spot we found
fried chicken and sweet tea for us to share.
Potato salad and a juicy peach
the liquid drips down your chin to your shirt.
A bowl of mixed greens is just out of reach
on our tongues, the tinglin’ taste buds do flirt.
Banana puddin’ and curious ants
I can’t continue to keep on ‘eatin’.
I won’t be able to button my pants
and a long, restful nap I’ll be needin’.
We can lie back, the sun will go down soon
hand in hand, we’ll gaze at the stars and moon.
* Pablo Neruda’s Kitchen *
Scaling Santiago slope: here, you kept your lover,
La Chascona, immortalizing her red locks in wrought iron suns.
Downstairs, a bar clipped out from a Norman ship
heralds a silver fish the size of three fists, still merry,
blissfully ignorant of the ransack of those last days
as you lay shriveled, eyes closed to a country heaved up from inside.
Now, in your paramour’s home, the fish, ditzy and pure,
points to a table spread with fine french service
and a wall of wooden cupboard, with a surprise door;
here you would appear spontaneously, costumed and masked,
to greet dinner guests — their plates full, crystal topped — to rounds of laughter;
Pablo, I have walked through your secret door,
into the cramped kitchen, and up a spiral to La Chascona’s lair
that faces the stone courtyard, longingly up to your library,
where, once I have scaled the garden stairs and entered,
as if through another secret passage, I finally found your real
dining room; Pablo I see you here, ringed by your guests
in print, your Swedish and Russian cards, your spines, I see you:
tumbler in grasp, not yet stripped, not yet vandalized.
You are busy, concocting at your table, and you pause.
You place down your pen and your tumbler of gin,
glance outside and simmer, all spirit.
You have caught one tiny glimpse
of La Chascona in her kitchen. You smile.
*CMC*
I absolutely love this. It is dream-like..
And oh, I love Pablo.
“La Chascona, immortalizing her red locks in wrought iron suns.”
“the fish, ditzy and pure,
points to a table spread with fine french service”
”
I finally found your real
dining room; Pablo I see you here, ringed by your guests
in print, your Swedish and Russian cards, your spines, I see you:
tumbler in grasp, not yet stripped, not yet vandalized.
You are busy, concocting at your table,”
Bravo!
Wow, what tour de force! I think Pablo himself would have loved this one. You’ve done him proud.
Thank you for your comments!
Here is La Chascona: http://www.fundacionneruda.org/en/la-chascona/image-gallery.html
Best wishes,
Claudia
* Pablo Neruda’s Kitchen *
Scaling Santiago slope: here, you kept your lover,
La Chascona, immortalizing her red locks in wrought iron suns.
Downstairs, a bar clipped out from a Norman ship
heralds a silver fish the size of three fists, still merry,
blissfully ignorant of the ransack of those last days
as you lay shriveled, eyes closed to a country heaved up from inside.
Now, in your paramour’s home, the fish, ditzy and pure,
points to a table spread with fine French service
and a wall of wooden cupboard with a surprise door;
here you would appear spontaneously, costumed and masked,
to greet guests — their plates full, crystal topped — in rounds of laughter;
Pablo, I have walked through your secret door,
into the cramped kitchen, and up a spiral to La Chascona’s lair
that faces the stone courtyard, longingly up to your library,
where, once I have scaled the garden stairs and entered,
as if through another secret passage, I finally find your real
dining room; Pablo I see you here, ringed by your guests
in print, your Swedish and Russian cards, your spines, I see you:
not yet stripped, not yet vandalized.
You are busy, concocting at your table, and you pause.
You place down your pen and your tumbler of gin,
glance outside and simmer, all spirit.
You have caught one tiny glimpse
of La Chascona in her kitchen. You smile.
*CMC*
(revision)
School Cafeteria Spaghetti
Dante, that archetypal Italian, could not have assigned Sisyphus
a task so daunting as a plate of school cafeteria spaghetti,
an oily lump, growing with each bite, gummy by second lunch.
On those days, no one earned silver stars as plate cleaners
to paste of charts on the walls in the primary grade classrooms.
No matter how we twirled the noodles round and round our forks,
chasing away spook house remembrances of the vat of worms
each Halloween into which we plunged our hands, right before
the peeled grapes the older kids convinced us were eye balls,
we could not make the mass diminish, much less disappear.
No one dreamed of calling it marinara—that sauce arriving
in industrial-sized silver cans, the glue that bound the strands
of spaghetti ladled in heaps on our melamine plates
by ladies lacking interest in whether we ate our fill or not,
caring only that we left soon, scraping our own plates
into the huge black garbage cans after our teachers finally
checked our progress, clucked their tongues at our waste,
and let us escape for the playground, the taste lingering.
Ployes
Not a pancake; not a crepe
The bread of life enjoyed by those living and visiting
L’Acadie des Terres et Forêts
Where the French-Canadian culture interlaces
Two countries, three regions, many nationalities
Buckwheat, flour, baking powder, salt and water
A simple mix, poured onto the griddle
never to be flipped – needs patience
Until air holes form where the bubbles pop
and the surface dries
Ever present companion to chicken stew
or topped with maple syrup for breaking fast
The flavor of tradition in the Saint John River Valley
Intoxicated Lullaby
I can hear it, the seeping
Desire pours in your voice:
metaphor of wine, champagne
brew. My face in the carpet:
I imagine you straight
tall–singing to the stars
from the soles of your feet.
Your lips give way, magnolia
sipping on the microphone.
Leg muscles sway with the last
time a man stroked your back
I ingest the intoxicating mix.
A sultry talk of horns returns.
Sight unseen, I float on longing.
Savor the tickling of the trumpet,
your indolent song instructs.
You are innocent to the flash
floods of feeling, while I limp
with the dark tattoos burned
on me by lonesome sailors.
Wow, beautiful! (I don’t get its relationship to the prompt, but I don’t care.)
Chicken Fried Steak.
He asked me to tell the tale
of how this London gal wound up
in his small Okie town, coz he
just couldn’t figure it out.
I said, imagine the steak that gets
fed up of it’s shape and so tries
a coat with a different name deep fried
from past mistakes,
He smiled as he slid over gravy boat
and quietly said ‘welcome home.’
Sweet Potato Palace
Breakfast in bed
With sweet potato pie
Paradise on earth
My oh, my
Please tuck me in
In sweet potato skins
With Marshmallow pillows
Let the games begin
Hand over the cinnamon
And please pass the potato
Grab your popcorn
And watch this rodeo
The First time
you tried vietnamese food,
you had a moment of truth,
really believing that God
exists so that you could
taste something that wouldn’t
be so completely foreign
or make you hurl on your dinner
plate. I remember how you were
being a five-year old
at that time as if i was forcing you
to eat turnips and broccoli,
liver and tripe. But didn’t want to
disappoint me, you scooped up
a forkful of steamed rice and nibbled
on a slice of grilled pork.
Eggrolls, everything dipped in fish
sauce. Bite after bite you devoured
the plate until I laughed, until it becomes
our joke that this was your Jesus moment.
Now when you order
the same dish at our favorite place,
I sometimes wonder
if you ever get bored
with the same dish,
but no, you always say,
it’s like the first time
every time, especially being
with the most beautiful woman
in the whole world. Having company
makes my dinner even more appealing,
but please, always tell the waiter
to keep the onion.
http://alotus-poetry.livejournal.com/139928.html
WELCH RHUBARB PIE
Turning seventeen,
While studying abroad In Wales,
Sounded a bit scary!
After careful thought she said yes,
Surrendered to the experience,
And left not knowing a soul,
In the whole group.
Arriving overseas, students struggled,
In the new and awkward situation,
Working hard to be comfortable,
Making it US friendly!
First night no one said a word,
All the way to dessert,
Polite nods and quick smiles hid shy intents,
Until they served the pie!
The Welch rhubarb specialty,
Instantly brought locales, staff, young Americans,
Into a state of joy,
Talking, laughing and opening up,
Like they were one big round family,
Consuming the dark red filing,
With the cool whipped delicious cream,
Like it was the sweetest thing on earth!
Indeed it was,
With crust so perfect,
Light brown,
Sculpted with just enough,
Curl on top,
Certainly the joined delight,
Invited in the connection,
Among the old, the new and the ones,
Who were ready to now fully embrace,
The total Welch experience!
Eager to have the anticipated pie one night,
No dessert came for the longest time.
Just when she stood to leave the table,
Out came a big pink birthday cake,
With Happy Birthday written on it,
In Welch,
Taking up the entire cake,
Entire staff and guests singing!
After much song and eating,
Whole group stood and danced through the halls,
Singing Happy Birthday by the Beatles,
With her inhibitions fading away,
She held on tight to the cute Welch boy,
She had been seeing in between classes.
Welch Rhubarb pie . . .
Now a thing of the past!
Oh, I can both see and taste it! How wonderful.
“If music be the food of love, play on … ”
~ Duke Orsino, Shakespeare’s “Twelfth Night”
EURYDICE REMEMBERS
I remember the sound of Orpheus singing,
and how the harp-strings he touched resounded
forming a bridge in mid-air
between heaven and earth, and earth and the grave—
I remember an African drum,
carried for miles across the ocean
to be played before the King’s throne,
in the outer court and the inner sanctuary at once—
I remember the sound of a bell
carried away over a green field
its tender call fading away
to silence.
Jane Beal
Beautiful, Jane.
Gator on the Grill
Gator on the grill
coming from the swamp
made me pay high bill!
Cheese Curds
Mild nuggets you must try
before you leave this world
or at least Wisconsin.
If they don’t squeak against your teeth,
they are not fresh enough.
Best one’s ever – Simon’s in
Little Chute. There is no metaphor
here. This is straight forward cheese talk
direct to you from Wisconsin.
The poem is in the cheese.
Linda Voit
I love it! I love cheese! And I love Wisconsin! Good choice!
(You name is familiar to me… Are/were you a member of RWG?)
Thanks! Me, too! Hmmm – What is RWG?
Day 18
4-18-2012
Write a poem with the title of a favorite regional food.
Turnip Greens with Cider Vinegar
Best served in out-of-the-way diners
by a Southern-accented grandmother
and accompanied by pintos simmering in their juices
with a side of buttery-moist cornbread.
The One We Don’t Mention
The favourite local delicacy
is not openly spoken of.
In fact I myself haven’t tasted it
for years, not since before even
moving up here — back when
it wasn’t specific to a place
so much as a time:
that experimental era
when we tried so many ways
to give our lives new flavour.
In these parts, I guess you could say
we’re in permanent time warp.
Indeed, the main ingredient
in the best of this region’s cuisine
is our staple crop, widespread
throughout the district. Old timers still
remember the Great Disaster — the raid
which put so many growers out of action,
that the local economy went bust
and the hardware store had to close.
Of course, there’s more ways than one
to ingest what is often considered
a gift from the gods (at once
so pleasurable and so good for us
that some people claim medicinal
dispensations). Plenty prefer to enjoy it
while sitting around and smoking.
Out Nimbin way, though, our Mary Jane
creates the most wicked, most munchable
cookies, with that little extra something!
(At least, so I’m told.)
THERE’S NO TASTE LIKE HOME
sweet corn
on the farm in Iowa
stuffed pizza
on Michigan Avenue
fajitas
along the Riverwalk
each
tastes like home
2012-04-18
P. Wanken
MEMORABLE MEALS
fish and chips
in Trafalgar Square
souvlaki
in the shadow of the Parthenon
wienerschnitzel
where the hills are alive with music
spaetzel
on the banks of the Danube
zacusca
after walking Unirii Square
memorable, each one…
because they were shared with friends
2012-04-18
P. Wanken
Good one, Paula. Sharing food with friends is one of life’s better pleasures.
PAD 2912 – local food
Elephant Ears
When we visit the summertime fair,
all kinds of things await,
from Jimmy’s prize pig to Rebecca’s new dress,
with the judges deciding their fate.
But though I enjoy the projects and pets,
showing hard work thru the years,
a trip to the fair is never complete
until we find elephant ears.
This stretched, floppy, flat piece of dough is fried fresh,
buttered and sugared with spice
cinnamon plays tunes on the tongues of us all
and we’re happy we paid the price
of this special treat that we so rarely eat
as it comes just once a year.
So I continue to greatly anticipate
the return of the elephant ear.
Stone Soup
stir the pot
make sure it’s hot
and what is not
well that is what
you throw out
with the baby
sliced and diced
and sweet enticed
to sup on ashes
sugar crashes
little pinches measured
inches of this and that
to make you fat
it shrinks the heart
(in more than one way)
I say, you know
what I mean you’ve seen
it every day the have and have
nots, empty pots with stones
for soup throws one for
a loop just check it out
we super size it, maximize it
belly not as big as eyes, it
seems so odd to realize
we throw away enough
to feed just one so share
a little, care a little
whittle down the hunger
understand we can
our hands can hold
each others hands
and feed the bellies
feed the spirits
feed ourselves
with shelves and shelves
of love and laughter
happy after all
is what we need
so get to cooking
start your looking
for just one and give
a little of yourself
and find that you are fed
your heart, your head
CHOUCROUTE GARNIE
Alsace, Elsaß – where my ancestors
dug potatoes in whatever
language – that borderland never
could decide to salt its tongue
with French or German, such distant
loyalties. But sauerkraut –
choucroute – a homey tang.
Choucroute garnie, the homely staple
garnished with potatoes and pork,
goose-grease, garlic and onion,
juniper berries, steamed over the stove,
then served with a crisp white wine –
a celebration dish of plenty,
after the bare winters, the wars
for stubblefields. My mother kept
its story in her heart, if not her cook-
book. In Strasbourg, I found
the recipe on a picture postcard.
After all the years, I’ll make
choucroute garnie, remembering.
Wild Game
Visit Austria in October
when wild game is on the menu
in most restaurants.
How sad that unprocessed, wild,
gamey animals are so scarce and expensive
when everyone used to eat that way.
At least, their forests are plentiful.
Wild mushrooms still grow.
Farmers sell pumpkinseed oil
and make brandy from apples and pears.
Here, in this sanitized country,
most people have never eaten
venison, grouse, pheasant, rabbit and deer,
much less hunted, gutted, skinned or tanned.
My father was a hunter.
I miss the plenty, the meatballs,
his stories, his disappearance after Thanksgiving,
a blessing. Now, most people
would shoot another person before an animal.
They have become used to packages,
dyes, sodium and tastelessness.
Where do I get the permit
to hunt those who have done this to us?
Chesapeake Blue Crab
Old bay
Seasoned nice
Not too salty
Not too spicy
Just right just right
Not tough
Not tart
Melting in mouths opened wide
No complaint about work
Work will bring delicacy tonight
Spread the sheet on the table
Spread the bid
To keep the vestments clean
A hammer in the left hand
Claw crackers
Yes it’s going to get
Real messy tonight
Suck from the claw and suck
Everything else within
The meal that makes dreams
Crustacean nightmares
Are my greatest dreams
MMMM!
(Polish Pierogi)
gather around the circle of dough
family, and history, and eastern nations, border
the periphery of this national dish
filled with meat, cheese, or fruits, but always love
love, gossip, and familiar stories
fold over and seal in heritage
now baked, now fried, now drowned
in sour cream and national pride
Oh, very nice! I grew up with pierogi.
It’s maternal ancestry, that was followed by nine months in Warsaw when I graduated high school. Food eaten in origin, is like food eaten outside, someone much better than you ever remembered it before.
CALIFORNIA CUISINE
My first introduction to this cuisine
came courtesy of a birthday dream
this special one, allowed to choose,
picked “California Cuisine.”
We read through the menu, we celebrators,
traded our thoughts, ordered our dinners
hungry for this singular treat
of California Cuisine.
We chattered and laughed while we waited
smiling as we anticipated
this new delight unknown to us
called California Cuisine.
Our food appeared on expansive plates
we all looked down–we’d sealed our fates–
my husband gazed at three lone spears
of green California Cuisine.
The asparagus lay in a precise way
across from two mouthfuls of entrée
we all looked up at each other’s reactions
to California Cuisine.
We looked from plate to plate in wonder
I tried not to laugh (it’s a social blunder)
but couldn’t stop when my husband said
“How ‘bout we stop for burgers on the way home?”
No more California Cuisine.
Chocolate
Such a cliche I know
A woman and her chocolate
But it is my drug of choice
Raising my blood sugar and my weight
It is a hard thing to say no
Such sweet bliss
Cheering me when I’m sad
Tantalizing my taste buds
Whether dark, milk, or white
Chocolate is my choice
Plain or fancy
I care not
A delightful frenemy
End of the Month Soup
Each month the same:
no money
groceries gone
except for a few staples
perhaps some leftovers
in the freezer.
Children grumble,
tummies growl
I lament my lack of
sufficient income
better planning
discipline.
To the cupboard,
out come the soup pot
many years old
with copper bottom.
Fill half way with water
start the heat.
To the pantry,
not much to see.
Shelves mostly empty
still some flour salt pepper
I bring it out
mixing in a bowl.
To the fridge,
onions
garlic
potatoes
chopped diced
added to the pot.
To the freezer,
thankful for my ice cubed
marinara sauces
leftover peas
a touch of corn
now added to the pot.
A taste with the wooden spoon
another dash of salt
sprinkle of pepper
ladled into bowls
served.
Can I have some more?
(So sorry for such late in the day poems. Grandchildren here 6:30 am to 7 pm followed by tiredness.)
Soup is great for stretching food! And I just want to say that the last sentence of your comment at he end seems like a great little poem: Grandchildren here/ 6:30 am to 7pm/ followed by/ tiredness.
green chile, you’re hot
the sexiest food to strut
‘round a street corner
Sooo right!
Fried Tomatoes
Around forty-five,
in the mid-west,
my friend cooked
me tomatoes.
Yummy!
Later I saw them fried
in the tomato movie.
I was green with envy.
Chicken Almond Ding
Bland. Inauthentic, I’m sure.
Light brown sauce, celery, chunks
of chicken, so tender—almost
prechewed. Almonds, sliced.
There should be a lot of them,
and they can’t be stale. Always
the safest choice on the menu,
and yet, if one element is off,
the whole thing becomes
disappointment over rice.
I have spent years trying to
find it, the perfect
chicken almond ding, but
nothing comes close to my family
at the Great Wall of China in
Englewood, Ohio, 1985 or so,
all four of us sipping tea,
trying something new.
I enjoyed how your poem moves from specific detail and turns to your family, so in the end it’s not about food, it’s about how a shared experience can stay with you forever. It’s not the dish you hunger for–it’s the lost moment you want back. Lovely.
Thanks, Brian! It took me a long time to realize that what I was seeking was that whole experience, not just the dish itself.
Well said, Brian – I agree. And I love the disappointment over rice line!
Soft-shell Crabs
I’ll pass when the food
looks like it
crawled onto the plate.
I Don’t Want Your Crabs!
Crabs, in cakes
or balls or dip or
freshly whacked,
have no place
on a dish in front of me.
I’ll stick with the ‘turf.’
I’m with you, Rob! In Maine last year, I tried to go with the flow and eat a whole lobster. I’ll never do that again! I was done when someone told me the next step was to crack the thing in half with my hands.
I’ve had lobster at a couple steak houses and Red Lobster, but it’s only the tails. Never had to dig the meat out myself.
Michigan Nights
Customers waiting for Friday
To come and make them happy:
Let’s go fishing!
Fresh, fried large and small mouth
Bass,
Maybe a crappie or two
Brown and crispie,
At the local bar-restaurant,
On the other side of the lake.
You can row there in the evening
Meditating on your way to fish heaven.
Chez Diablo
I sat reading Dante when hunger awoke
and I wondered what doomed souls
would eat between stokes.
It couldn’t be tasty,
it couldn’t be good,
they were there to be punished,
that’s understood.
The first course was easy,
they needed their fuel,
so I’ll serve specks of offal
suspended in gruel.
The main course is chitlins, haggis, and tripe,
not served too fresh,
but served slightly ripe.
Desert was the hard course,
I’m sure you’ll agree
since sweets are forbidden
in the damned’s recipes.
A flambé is pointless,
they’re in Hell after all,
so I settled for kidneys
pickled in gall.
When I finished the menu
my hunger had ceased
thinking of vile foods
from fish, fowl, and beast.
So now I can slumber
and rest at long last,
having finished the planning
of the doomed soul’s repast.
Taste of Home
Our soldier
in Iraq asked us
to send him
ten pounds of
Carolina barbecue
with all the fixings.
May he or she be home SOON to enjoy them! And thanks to your soldier.
Angel Lush
A blushing stripper could dance
this name, innocence and scandal
entwined, pink-cheeked cherubim
modeling underwear, poutingly prim,
toying with taste.
Take layers of angel food cake,
fresh berries—blue-, straw-, rasp-
and creamy pineappley filling, and
the flavors melt into one another,
creating penetrating colors
alluring through blown glass.
Lusciousness is served from
a thigh-high trifle bowl, a long
spoon to reach the very depths
of delicious, the very magi
of imagination stripped of doubt,
a favorite at every church function.
Horseshoe Sandwich
Who knew that good luck
Could come on a toasted bun
Smothered in cheese sauce?
Sheppard’s Pie
On bended knee with open heart.
A recipe for a fresh start.
Shared every day in any place,
surrounded by glory and grace.
At welcome table you shall dine,
with broken bread and sip of wine.
One in spirit, bathed in love.
A blessed meal from up above.
All empathetic souls prepare
with grand intentions and great care.
Now open palms and head held high
we shall share in Sheppard’s pie.
By Michael Grove
Just lovely, Michael.
SHOO FLY PIE
It was Saturday night and Grandpa planned
to cut up a rug with Grandma. Everybody came
with stacks of records, large and round
some hot, some soft, with rich licks
of clarinets, the tang of steel guitars
come together, trumpets blaring, cooking a party
for the cats to jive. In the kitchen Mama smiles . . .
carrying the secret. How her babies loved
short’nin bread. No man, it’s apple pan dowdy
here where jitter bugs gyrate as
the needle passes through the grooves
seventy-eight revolutions per minute. Then
the tone arm rises, on command,
the record falls, automatically
the needle finds its place
and the dance goes on . . . In between,
five full ounces hit the spot, twice as much,
but who was counting, and in the corner they ducked
for apples. A hand calls for time out, stop the music,
everybody in a circle,
“There was a dog, a little dog,
and his name was Bingo”, round and round,
slowly spelling B-I-N-G-O, once, twice,
could this be my girlfriend, or
the luck of the draw. Grandpa tells me
it was always Grandma, but
Grandma says it wasn’t always, but
he took her home. They tell me, just before
they left, Mama put a table out
smak dab in the middle of the dance floor,
waiting for the minute announcing
“One meat ball” . . . These days
we cut the rugs, as
they sit back, close their eyes, and smile.
Zev Davis
Humble Pie
Common global fare
best consumed after error
with poor choice of words
KEY LIME PIE
Slice of life, white cream
riding smooth on a sour
dream like when you
find a letter in a drawer,
unfold it to re-read what
you’ve forgotten. Gentle
slopes of purple ink with tart
recriminations underneath.
You earned every bitter
word, yet still you wince
your way from Dear
to signature, the after-
taste somehow sweet–
a just dessert.
I like this a lot, Brian! Interesting take on the prompt, and I can taste both the pie and the recriminations.
This is one of my favorite kind of pies to bake — but all those key limes take forever to juice!! Still – you really caught that slightly bitter, wonderful dessert!
Love pie and poem. I bake a mean one!
A Farcical Feast
The Secret Service in a brothel
said they just came for a falafel
I bet when they were eating farina
never dreamed they’d get a subpoena
even a dose of milk of magnesia
didn’t help to cure their amnesia
should have ordered out for a pizza
instead they claimed too much tequila
if only had eaten arroz con coco
could have used defense de loco
just one helping of Asado Bogotano
now they’ll be singing like a stoolie soprano
but surely even I would scream
for a helping of fried ice cream
~ Randy Bell ~
This is hysterical!
April 18, 2012 – day 18
Favorite regional cuisine Make it the title of poem
Sazarac Segue
Bewitching brew of the true
New Orleans Sazarac,
bitters biting the hollows
of your cheeks, rye rising
to sooth swallows sweetened
with muddled sugar, and absinthe
awakening trembling taste buds
all in preparation for Eggs Sardou,
poached, placed upon a bed
of artichokes and creamed
spinach, sauced with a delicate
Hollandaise, complimented
with chicory blended coffee,
while you sit sated, jazz combo
notes humming in you ear,
and perhaps, you may make
room for powdered sugar
beignets, delicately crisp,
all blending years of tradition
together, and you, reluctant
to ever leave.
Oh my goodness! You make it all sound so delectable!!
FRESH GUACAMOLE
Cut it
slice it
dice it
or chop it
Splash with
a dash of lime
Add
cilantro
tomato
onion and garlic
perhaps a
touch of thyme
Top with pepper
and there you go
smashed up
avocado
Yes, you can use thyme
Found this recipe after I wrote the poem.
http://www.avocado.org/recipes/view/17861/Cajun-Guacamole
Welp, thyme is way better than cilantro. (I have an allergy – it tastes like poison to me…) But I do love guac!!
I’m allergic to cilantro too. I guess that’s why I left it out!
Cincinnati-Style Chili
Cincinnati is a German town
In love with brats and knockwurst
And German potato salad.
But that’s not for me
My best memory
is Cincinnati-style chili.
3 way, 5 way, I say
All or nothing!
Spaghetti on a hot plate
Ladle with Cincinnati chili
(that of a secret concoction –
perhaps cinnamon
maybe chocolate)
Cover with red kidney beans
Sprinkle with diced onion
– not the sweet southern kind –
Over the top a lovely mound
Of shredded cheddar cheese.
Mumble to the waitress with your mouth full,
And she’ll answer, “Please?”
(There is more to this but I don’t have time to write it up just now.)
We’ve lived all over, including the already mentioned Buffalo and Atlanta
but I am frantic about being the first to mention this delectable Cincinnati
taste sensation.
They used to have a restaurant in PHoenix that served chili Cincinnati style, but they’ve closed. It was fantastic!
This should be noted as Skyline Chili, verses Gold Star Chili. Skyline is kinda mushy, but very addictive. I wanted to include callouts to the Cincy Seminary students who subsist on the stuff. And do not be fooled by the copycat at Steak-n-Shake, which is not even close. (And as long as I’m calling out to the students, how about that Lotta Trotta?)
Glad you got to try it, Domino!
“Please” is a colloquialism that means “I’m sorry, I didn’t understand, please repeat yourself.” I’ve never heard it said anywhere else than Cincinnati.
I guess Claudia and I were on the same track this a.m. (Hi Claudia!)
Curry
Underneath the pestle
spices shift, slide, finally
giving way, turning into sand, fragrant
dust.. Not just food
but a way to hide the rot of
the unidentifiable meat left
in the road, the grind of poverty, the
smell of death.
I like the phrase “fragrant dust.” Strong turn in the poem’s final lines–I didn’t see death coming. Quite a nice punch in the end. Well done!
This packs a punch.
Thank you both
NECESSITY
Dealing with cuisine
Is a life’s necessity,
while some live to eat,
others will just eat to live
I Cook because I must.
Wisconsin Weekend
They still do fish fry in every corner tap on Friday
nights, and all the restaurants have an overpriced
family style offering, but it’s not all fried, and it’s
mostly frozen cod, and there’s too many potato choices
and, my god, they even serve salads instead of cole slaw
if you ask. Really. Growing up in a country village,
there were only a few choices, Magowan’s and Roundy’s
and my family’s favorite, Stitch & Mary’s on the lake.
Friday was fish, always perch, always fried, and fries and
cole slaw and little rye rounds. Saturday was chicken,
always fried, and mashed potatoes and overcooked
squash. The men all smoked, the woman danced, we kids
played pinball and drank some deliciously sweet lemon
drink that I am sure led to type two diabetes. No wine that
I remember, but lots of beer for the old folks, and usually
an Old Fashioned. Sunday was church and a picnic, but
not in the winter, and sometimes not the church part either.
I’m pretty sure none of this was healthy, but living where
we do now, with lots of specialties but no traditions,
the memories are savory, the recollections sweet.
In the process of moving back to Wisconsin. I almost wrote about being back where you don’t have to explain what an old fashion is! Thanks for the memories. Also, my poem is very late in the day, but in case you are interested, it’s about cheese curds.
On Wisconsin!
CHILE
I’m a proud New Mexican
we love our chile green
there’s nothing like it anywhere
no matter where you’ve been.
We also love our chile red
it’s yummy too, con carne.
We simply crave it every day
I tell you that’s no blarney.
Would you like it red or green?
That question is official.
We’re serious about cuisine
we know our chile’s special.
We ask that you not be confused
and think our chile Tex-Mex.
We always spell it with an e
and require our daily fix.
We must have chile on our burgers,
and on our hot dogs also.
We even eat it on our toast
and spice up Pasta Alfredo.
Now if you cannot eat it hot
we’ll serve it to you mild.
Red or green or hot or not,
for chile we are WILD !
You tell ‘em & in rhyme! Absolutely delightful! We New Mexicans do love our chiles!
I am wild for chili too!
Rice
Ready in a minute or twenty
Ideal with salt and lots of butter
Confetti thrown on newlyweds
Earthy wholesome rice
Rice is nice and I read this poem twice! Good!
All-Day Singing and Dinner on the Ground
No Thanksgiving bounty rivaled the spread
on Decoration Day, when from miles around
everyone showed up at Frog Pond, politicians
more intent on eating than on kissing babies,
the visiting preacher near the front of the line,
ready to offer thanks before digging in,
though even those at the rear of the line
knew the bounty spread on folding tables
would last like the loaves and fishes long ago.
No complicated casseroles from recipes
in magazines competed with this fare—
plates of fried chicken, warm rolls, hot biscuits
in baskets, covered by tea towels to discourage
the flies, sliced tomatoes, straight off the vine,
pickles from last summer, emptying jars
for this year’s bumper crop of cucumbers,
green tomato pickles, fried okra, potato salad—
yellow and white—cole slaw and sweet corn,
on the cob and off. Half runners floated
in bacon grease, cooked down soft, seasoned
with hunks of onion, salt, and pepper,
all washed down with sweet iced tea.
Most of us groaned at the sight of dessert,
then piled a plate—for later, we claimed:
fried apple pies with fork-crinkled dough,
banana pudding, icing piled on coconut cake.
Before we were lulled to sleep, bellies full,
folks started heading back to the church house
but not before the women spread tables clothes
and bed sheets over the food tables, saving
the leftovers for later, after we’d sung
verse after verse, the men then the boys
taking turns leading all the old favorites
in clear, pure, four-part harmony, sweetest
sound this side of heaven, we’d declare.
Oh, just yum. ^_^
Written to Jan Turner’s form–Tri-Fall form.
Sunday Lunch
Table long, groaning now
under weight
of platters, dishes, and elbows.
Ham, chops, eggs galore vow
to stay late
just to erase dieter’s woes.
Clasping hands for prayer
waiting now
‘til men get theirs and kids do too.
Smells so good this home fare
“Where’s the cow?”
Utters late-comer with “moo.”
“Stayed outside,” replies Gran
“Sit and eat.”
all bowls cleaned, platters empty too.
Belt loose on a lone man
children sleep
in laps of soft-talking moms.
© Claudette J. Young 2012
Bravo for combining a very tough form with this prompt!
Sunday dinner, Polish style
Sniff the smell of cabbage steaming
On the stove this Sunday morning
hand-picked from the vegetable garden
this sunny morning in November.
See how the cabbage keeps producing
Even when the frosts and cold spells
Turned all of the tender veggies
Into little piles of mush.
Now the pan of boiling water
Bubbles over from the lid
Quick! It’s time to add the noodles
Watch them grow from dry to plump.
We are ready! All the noodles mixed
Into the cabbage (with a bit of chopped-up onion}
Let the flavors merge together! Serve the kielbasa
On the side. Enjoy our Polish Sunday feast!
Oh yeah! That sounds delicious!
Fun!!
I went Polish too! With Pierogi
Tamales
In the Southwest we have hot tamales,
(I mean that in more ways than one).
Tamales are spicy and we all get our jollies
in having some when we want fun.
Add salsa (the music or condiment),
mariachis and hot enchiladas
some nachos and this is a recipe competent
for parties with cold Michelada.*
And of course, we must have our Tabasco
hotter than a pepper sprout,
We do like our spice and our parties alfresco
Come visit so you can find out!
*Michelada is a spicy, yet refreshing, beer cocktail of sorts!
TOM KHA KINDA GUY
“Coco got a lot of iron / make you strong like a lion.”
-–from “Coconut Woman” sung by Harry Belafonte
and in Oakland, I came down with an ambulatory flu
like rain on a sunny day. While my forehead burned
egg-frying hot, I felt more restless than guilty about
being in public, so, keeping my hands to myself, went
to Home Depot, Safeway, even the DMV, body aching
but still knocking tasks off the punch list now that I
had a day “off work.” The sun set. I needed chicken
soup, but I was all alone and didn’t want to cook, so
I went to Sabuy Sabuy and ordered a family-size tub
of Tom Kha Gai, parked in a cul-de-sac and guzzled
half of it, scalding hot. Then drove home, got inside,
undressed, and drank the rest lukewarm, knocking
the bottom of the container to get the last pieces of
onion and snowy chicken meat into me. I slept until
late afternoon the next day and woke without a fever.
FangO
That’s a good little place!
Are you an Oaklandian, eljulia?
Dolma
Stuffed Grape leaves
my favorite, rice filled
my brothers preferred meat and rice.
They always grape leaves ate
in making them, they rarely did participate.
Mom, dad, sometimes Armenian lady friends
would gather at a wooden four by four table.
In a pan olive oil heated
sauted chopped onions a bit of lemon zest, dill
aroma wafting throughout the house
a primal cooking essence.
Broth, rice, flat leaf only parsley
cooked briefly, then pine nuts added.
All would sit at the table
blanched grape leaves piled in the middle,
next to the rice mixture.
As hands spooned mixture into the center
of the leaf, each set of hands had their own technique
for gingerly wrapping the rice inside.
But, hands could wrap while
everyone shared stores,
exchanged news and ideas,
We sipped Turkish coffee and nibbled on baklava.
until the first batch of leaves were ready
then everyone would sit down at the dinning table
and as we feasted would tell stories of the old country
or when they made stuffed grape leaves with their mothers.
Dolma is a custom, a gathering, a quilting bee for food.
OH! I love everything mentioned here.
As I read everyone’s poems my mouth was watering. Then I thought of this:
Knish
When I moved to Queens
the delectable flavor
tantalized me and I
missed the aroma
wafting out to the
street as I walked
by never able to
avoid the invitation
sent on the breeze
for my mouth to
bite into the flaky
crust and taste the
oniony, potatoey
goodness inside
of that marvel found
on my Brooklyn street
they try hard at
Knish Nosh to replicate
but I still remember
strolling to the movies
holding that hot potato
confection
Beer
from any region
cures what ‘ales’ you
drink at your own risk
Basking in Chowder
Cream silk, herby white satin
Sinking with my spoon
Clams swimming in a half shell
Chowder tucked into my tum
FALAFEL
The hamburger of Egypt
Two blocks from the Metro
which I used to love to ride so
I could watch men in turbans,
kids selling candy bars,
women in burqas, their mysterious eyes
seemed to be hiding secrets which I tried to quess.
I stealthily listened to Arabic, French, Armenian
conversations with those around me who were often
staring at my curious blue eyes
somewhat a rarity to many 60 years ago.
Two blocks from the Metro
on Sharia Ibrahim road
was the best falafel stand in Cairo area.
Whenever I had a few pennies there I would go.
There was a line there from before dawn till after midnight.
Evan in the middle of the day when most
of Egypt closed down to escape the heat and sleep
people crowded around waiting for this treat.
Old whithered wringled dried faced men
in Galabiyyas to keep cool,
who date like lived in desert sun,
but their eyes smiled at a 4 year old girl
waiting eagerly for her pita bread filled
with hot off the grill falafel.
Other native children still in Pajamas
no restrictions in customs to wearing
sleeping attire in the streets chatted with me
about what we could do today.
Women dressed often in black, but sometimes colorful
hijabs to cover their hair with matching jilbab dresses
baskets and bags hanging from their arms
talked only to other women.
The streets strewn with
Donkeys and their droppings,
often chicken scurrying about and feathers flying,
lots of sand, dust and dirt
vendors of all sorts pushing carts and their wares
beggars, many with missing limbs or blind eyes,
layered in dirt and shredded ragged clothes
sat in the same spot day after day.
Sometimes tourists would say, “Oh such poverty,
it is soooo primitive” But to me it was a playground.
Casserole (aka Hot Dish)
Usually noodle based
with a meat for flavor,
varying vegetables
and a dash of spice.
Accompanying the dish
are optional sentiments
and facial expressions
depending on the situation:
Smiles and welcomes
for new neighbors –
Somber faces and hugs
for bereavement –
Grins and belly pats
for the expectant moms –
Tsk-ing lectures
for broken bones –
Commiserating nods
for loss of material objects –
Hearty laughter and high fives
for any celebration…
Yes, the Casserole –
an extremely portable
dish for any event,
any season,
any place,
and any time.
Here’s a bop, slightly off-topic…. It’s been a rough 24-hours here in the ‘hood.
Death in the pot
He couldn’t have been more than twelve years old,
face down on our lawn, strung out on K-2.
Out of nowhere there were three police cars
blocking the street, soon joined by a fire truck
and a white ambulance. Then came the crowd,
the shouts, the knowing looks, the same old dance.
Something has to change in this neighborhood.
Overnight there was fresh graffiti sprayed
on our neighbors’ garage – a racial slur
with a threat. The City sent a young man
to take photos. He hardly said a word.
It all just felt so completely normal:
cops on our lawn, the n-word three feet tall.
It wasn’t until my son said to me,
“I’m scared to be outside,” that it hit me:
Something has to change in this neighborhood.
Suddenly I’m angry. Seething at the
drug pushers, slum lords, smug politicians,
most of all, myself – for falling asleep,
dulled by twenty years in one place, until
I don’t blink when a kid might be dying
on my doorstep. There is death in the pot.
Something has to change in this neighborhood.
THAT IS ONE HELLAVU REGIONAL CUISINE – BRILLIANT ! “There is death in the pot”. Get this one to a larger audience … ASAP… ,!
Do you mind if I repost at PA poeming Friends? It is that good!
Hi, Pearl. Thanks for the kind response. Sure – go ahead. It’ll probably need some revision down the road, but it was good to get off my chest this morning.
Incredible poem! “There is death in the pot” says it all.
Here’s a little ditty that should make you cringe or go “Oooo.”
Granny’s Guarded Secret
It sits, having conquered gravity
To reign over table and diners.
Six layers of diabetes, waiting
For consumption by the sliver.
Who’d’ve expected one pie
To feed twenty sugar addicts?
We wait, breathe held, for slicing
To begin, so that we can let
Our portion melt, slither, find
Our centers to give that rush
To bodies needing Pilates more
Than three kinds of caramel in
Six stacked shells of doughy goodness.
© Claudette J. Young 2012
Snow Peas and Chicken
In a moment, stir-fried,
this delicate taste,
these delicacies,
the snow pea pods
that crunch with every bite
and the bits of tender chicken,
while sprinkles of soy sauce
entice.
It’s the experience
I savor,
and I take the time
to enjoy the food I taste,
while the soft plunking of Japanese music
recalls a simpler life in another world.
Au revoir Papa.
He wanted onion soup
and real French bread
but before I made him either
he was already dead.
I’m getting verklempt from this little gem.
xxx
This hits hard even though (or because) it’s dressed in a simple rhyme – like being bludgeoned with a nerf bat. Well done. (if that does not sound like a compliment, know that it is supposed to be one. I am tired!)
Thai Peanut Spicy Chicken
I let the wisps of
peanut-scented steam
waft from the Styrofoam
to-go container,
and I inhale it
as though it was
some exotic breathing
treatment.
My heart pounds
in my chest
and the saliva pools
in my mouth
as I carefully
balance the peanut sauce
with the white rice
on my fork.
The Thai spices,
a magical mystery mix,
shoot electricity
from my tongue
through my entire being,
faster than morphine,
more exciting than her touch
the very first time.
The crunch of the peanut
and the tenderness
of the chicken
make every bite
a challenge
to savor
and not devour.
What problems that exist
in this world,
in my world
are for the moment
off somewhere
far, far away.
The memory
of sweet coconut milk
and fiery red chili
stays with me
all afternoon,
reminding of
what is often
the best part of my day.
Great poem, B. I love the contrast of the food to the takeout container.
Fish Balls
=======
Are these canned treats the
Rocky Mountain Oysters of
the sea? Sorry, no.
“Shakespeare, Macbeth,
and the Door County Wisconsin Fish Boil”
–A peninsula near Lake Michigan
Enter three lumberjacks and a crowd.–
They don’t come for the fish,
they come for the show at Death’s Door,
(Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble)
to watch a colossal cauldron
of water come alive with brine and flame.
(1 WITCH. Thrice the brinded cat hath mew’d.
2 WITCH. Thrice and once, the hedge-pig whin’d.
3 WITCH. Harpier cries:—’tis time! ’tis time!
1 WITCH. Round about the caldron go;)
They come to huddle around the cedar-fed
bonfire sparkling in the dusk, to circle its warmth.
(Sliver’d in the moon’s eclipse)
(Boil thou first i’ the charmed pot!
In the caldron boil and bake;)
Eye of red-jacket potato, toe of pearl onions,
flesh of Lake Michigan white fish. Into
the mesh basket they go. Steam and boil
with toil and trouble.
(For the ingredients of our caldron.
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.)
The master stirs not in time; he listens
(For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.)
The fire snaps, the crowd in hush.
The boil master spikes rising flames
with kerosene, a sizzle a rush, a boiling
oil mush runneth over steely keg.
Drizzle lemon butter tonic rich
and warm to tongue and bread.
(Cool it with a baboon’s blood,
Then the charm is firm and good.)
Cool it with a cherry pie;
Then the charm is firm and good.
Door County Cherriy pie, of course! Fun. Brought back memories of one of these in White Fish Bay. It’s a show and dinner, for sure!
KNISH
It’s a mental hunger
The waiting and wanting
Wishing and hoping
Starving for an outlet
Through which to pursue the senses.
Taste can be a bitter rival
When what one wants
Is what one lacks
But cuisine can be a sweet mistress.
Governed by factors beyond the control
Of a single person
Different options remain available
To satiate the appetite of those
Who might like a bowl of New England clam chowder
Or who may prefer the aroma of an Israeli knish.
We are on the same track here. Did you read mine? Is there anything like the aroma from a knish store?
Forgot to mention your poem made me want to go out and buy one. It’s hard to find a good knish in Stamford.:)
I just read yours. I really do want to go out and buy one, but I was picturing Ben Yehuda Street in Jerusalem where I picked one up years ago when I was there, and it was just awesome to have a real Israeli knish
I love the potatoey goodness, as you so aptly put it. I think between your poem and mine, I’m just going to have to go and find some to satisfy my craving.
Portland’s not a big knish place either. I remember my grandmother’s knishes made from scratch in four fillings. Alas, she never used recipes.
Philly cheesesteak
It was last year that I finally found
a place on South Street to finally try
an actual Philly cheesesteak. Of course,
South Jersey has many places that try to
emulate that benchmark of cuisine from
the city of brotherly love, but many have
told me that nothing can compare to a steak
at Geno’s, at Pat’s or Jim’s. With a coupon
in hand, we went to Steaks On South, and it
wouldn’t be my last time, either. I probably
didn’t order it with the correct terminology,
my editor brain refusing to say “a cheesesteak
wit”, but my mouth won’t soon forget the melding
of cubes of chicken melding with fried onions and
bacon on a soft, but not too soft roll, the grease
lightly coating my hands. Still, as much as I enjoyed
that fried masterpiece, the best cheesesteak I’ve ever
had was from a town in my own county in South Jersey,
on the largest roll I’ve ever seen a cheesesteak on. I
somehow managed to eat one of those oversized monstrosities
once, and it is now something of legend, though I don’t think
my stomach has ever really forgiven me.
Fried Okra
Cornmeal-coated
Crunchy-fried
Spicy-hot
or not
Served with cornsticks
Dripping butter
Sweet Tea offers
counterpoint
Ah, the days!
When food was good
We worried not
with calories
or fats and sugar
Let them be!
Today that is apostasy
Wonderful, y’all.
Dump Dinner/Low Country Boil
“Dump dinner” we called it in the north of the South
Down here in Georgia, the title rolls from your mouth.
No matter the name, the process is the same.
Grab a big pot, fill water to the brim
Bring to a boil, throw the veggies in
Corn, onions, peas, whatever else you please
Your timer’s a beer, so when one.. or two.. disappear
grab those crustaceans (local, no imitations)
dust with Old Bay, so quiet they’ll stay
toss them in the brew, to simmer, to stew.
Once they turn pink, put down that drink
Turn off the gas, serve it up en masse.
I never had this, but you make it sound fun!
HOW TO MAKE A TWINKIE*
Put me in a room
With hundreds of socialites
Who love to talk on and on about their lives
And I’ll try to be inconspicuous
Because I’m a twerp
And then I’ll trip down some stairs
Head over heels like a slinky
And there you have it:
That makes me a Twinkie.
*I know, not really a regional dish, but you can make these at home
Oh my ….have to run.. back later stopped at Jane
Puddle Pie
Puddle Pie! Puddle Pie!
Dirt-licious local Puddle Pie!
Some with beetles, some with flies,
you can get them any size,
seasoned with grass and flower bud.
Or would you like yours ala mud?
ala mud please.
Now also offered “Freckled” (with ladybugs). You don’t eat the ladybugs, of course. You just visit with them while you enjoy your delicious Puddle Pie.
Gross, but fun.
Mudless, please.
vinegar pepper barbeque
a man
who’s all hurry
with a whiskey red tomato sugar sauce
will fill your belly
and leave
gristle
I love
a little bite. yes.
vinegar
pepper
barbeque is in the cooking
slow
and smoky
with the fire laid to last until you’re done.
Sopapilla
All puffed up
Empty in middle
Comes from searing hot oil
Light weight and flaky
Needs honey
Alfresco
It is a cuisine based not
on rice, nor cabbage,
but it does involve
a great deal of
pounding, stirring,
and molding,
and the savory
element is the
sweetest on the planet
So, when you are offered
a sample of the daily fare,
you have no choice,
if you have any sense
of culinary adventure,
but to accept a delectable
offering from the
Sandbox Cuisine
Swedish Pancakes
She browns them
so thin you can
see through them,
then fills and folds
them over
t u c k cs
but the sweet
goodness
in the middle spills
out over the edges
unable to be contained.
I can still see her
busy
in that Tahoe kitchen
wrapping
each one with love,
a delicious
abundant
laughing soul
taken from us
much too soon.
aaack. typo. expanded word should be t u c k s.
apologies. need more coffee…
I didn’t notice it until you mentioned it!
I love this. And Swedish pancakes, too.
Dee-lish!
Musseling in on Chips
Tell me little mussel,
swimming in Belgium beer and cream,
with your dinner jacket opened and
your little tummy all bulgy bare,
do you suppose, little mussel,
that you’d taste better with a chip?
LOL, this reminds me a little of “The Walrus and the Carpenter” with all the poor oysters getting eaten. Something about personifying shellfish makes me sympathize with them (but I still eat them anyway)
Me, too!
and me!
I am having trouble posting comments. There is so much I want to say to all the great poets on this site. But it keeps saying I have posted too quickly, when I have only postd my own poem.
I think “posting too quickly” means that, at the same time you are trying to comment, so were half dozen others. Count three and paste it in again.
Hit refresh and it should go through without having to re-paste/re-post. Sometimes I have to refresh 3-4 times, but eventually, it always works for me.
Note: If you’re ever in my hometown of Virginia Beach, you should stop by Bubba’s for a bowl of their She Crab Soup. It’s delicious, or so I’ve heard.
She Crab Soup
I was never brave enough to order the house special.
The idea of roe in my spoon made me nervous for the same
Reason I never swallowed watermelon seeds as a child
Because you never know.
It was our favorite place to pick up our friendship.
Catching female gossip like crabs in creaky cages,
Although we preferred to wade in with chicken
On string to lure them in.
We were content to watch the locals tether boats
In a row along the pier, mooring just long enough
To share a bowl of soup before casting off to
Somewhere I’ve never been.
We were locals too, but we felt foreign without boats
Of our own, like lifelong visitors watching something
Older than our memory unfold with the sun
Over the eastern horizon.
This is the most beautiful poem about food and friendship I have ever read.
Wow, what a wonderful compliment. Thank you!
Korean Quandries
Jogae gui is just fine for me
even better with Galbi and Kimchi
cornish game hens stuffed with ginseng
are ingredients found in Samgyetang
the popular Dolsot Bibimbap
is usually served with a dollop
of gochujang ( red pepper paste )
beware your taste buds becoming debased
Sinseollo is elaborate for royalty
but I’d rather just have Bulgogi
a steamed dish of Dubuseon
can’t compare to Jajangmyeon
Pajeon is best with soy sauce and chili pepper powder
still leaves me dreaming of New England clam chowder
Anju is consumed with Korean Soju
it’s the alcohol that’ll put a hurting on you
~ Randy Bell ~
Okay, you seriously made me hungry for some of my mom’s cooking. She always made bibimbap with a fried egg on top. *Mouth watering*
What a timely prompt; my mother-in-law was just telling me about her recent voyage into the sea of Brunswick Stew preparation.
A Biscuit By Another Name
A scone is a scone but
a scone is not a biscuit,
and a biscuit not’s a biscuit
unless it’s a biccie, ‘cause
then it’s a crispy cookie.
But a cookie’s not a cookie
until it’s baked up firm
because cookies are from
Holland where wooden
clogs have also come.
SANCHOCHO
She couldn’t speak a lick of Spanish.
She couldn’t salsa or meringue.
He loved her just the same,
She accepted his ring and last name,
But she knew what his family would secretly say.
Why this bland, flavorless white woman?
Why, when all the women in this family
Are strong, sexy Columbian blend?
Three of four brothers married right in the end,
But why did he pick this gringa, so pale and gangly?
But she knew some things are universal.
Like potatoes, chicken, plantain and corn,
Cilantro was a surprise for her tongue,
She liked it, and stirred it in among
The other ingredients, and the Sanchocho was born.
And the family smiled as they caught the scent.
They popped into the kitchen to take a look.
She spooned the stew into bowls
They all ate together, warm bellies and souls
And they said, “Well, at least she can cook.”
Spam
Spam Musubi on the beach,
with waves crashing.
Spam and eggs, 99 cent special,
the Hukelau shack.
Spam sandwiches in a windy
castle in England,
Spam, spam, spam
I am.
How did this become
synonomous with
junk mail?
I actually wrote this poem a long time ago, and actually included it in my collection, Mugging for the Camera – but given the topic for today, which is regional foods, I thought I would repost/share it in case anyone might have yet another term for this food…
What’s for Lunch?
Accents and idioms truly abound
in every state and every town.
One way to for one to manage to see
the spoken word discrepancy
is the local names we give for food.
Example? A tube-shaped meal can include:
A sub – or the longer form, submarine
where meats and cheeses are often routine-
ly piled quite high between some bread slices,
sometimes with mayo, oil, vinegar and spices.
It can also be called a hoagie or even a grinder
and if you forget, here’s another reminder
that some folks say po’boy and others say wedge
with tomato and lettuce sticking out from the edge
of the Italian or Cuban; they both taste soooo good,
along with the sarney or the famous Dagwood.
There’s the bomber, the depth charge, the zep and baguette,
and I have a few more ’cause I’m not finished yet!
There’s also the speidie from New York, Upstate,
you can savor the flavor – it always tastes great.
Just go to a deli and say that you need, oh…
a hamboat or roast beef foot-long torpedo!
In case you might wonder, this list’s incomplete,
but it’s made me quite hungry – so I think I’ll go eat.
###
Argh, I just had breakfast, and now you’ve made me hungry again! (I love subs, maybe I’ll ditch the packed lunch today and go get one). But I love the rhyming in your poem, you pay wonderful homage to the sub sandwich.
Edouard and I
in the Luxembourg Gardens
eating crêpes stuffed with strawberry jam
and overflowing with cream
that came from a street vendor
who sent us on our way with a blessing
wreathed in fried-butter steam
to the borders of a fountain
where we sit near the feet of Polyphemus
beaten into eternal copper blue
dropping powdered sugar
and centimes onto the blanket of water
that billows with the afternoon
while long-beaked birds come
plucking at our feet and the heady violets
we picked so surreptitiously
that it gave us this rush
like we were committing aesthetic crimes
the thieves of five-petaled beauty
as well as the thieves of
warm wet sweetness wrapped in tinfoil
doubled with white-handed glee
trading a bit of July lumière
with our mouths and our jellied tongues
and licking our fingers clean
nice capture!
Baked Alaska
Temperate winds and
warming seas confuse
the whales and polar bears
who think it’s summer.
They scan the sea for food,
as tourists in small boats
rowed from the mother ship
get closer looks and pictures
of themselves smiling in
a light jacket, of glaciers
melting behind them,
their blue ice falling,
their waves giving all
aboard a thrilling ride,
only a little dangerous,
and well worth the price.
Tonight the chef serves
a light and frothy irony
for dessert, its browned
meringue wrapped around
a slowly melting center,
that can only hold a little
while
longer.
Yum!
Grandmother Blintzes
Today you can buy them frozen in a box ready for your pleasure
A variety of flavors added insouciantly for good measure
“Blintzes” cousin to crepes ready in a relative modern flash
An acceptable treat , yet having nothing to do with halycon memoried vaulted stash
The kitchen counter was cleared, scrubbed clean readied as a would be surgical site
My grandmother short and no nonsense entered raven haired tipped with white
Sleeves on arms pushed up leaving soft powdered flesh unaccustomed free
Pulled from “Fridge” and cupboards shelves and once something left in the car all that would need she
Potatoes first were peeled then grated on a shining stainless washboard looking thing
Then one single perfect onion picked, picked, grated to the nub, all was only finished when watching eyes with tears did sing
And then, only then, this potato onion mixture in a crockery bowl pushed to the side
Did she fling open kitchen windows wipe the counters, pull flour and flush faced ready for the ride
As she mixed flour, water, maybe eggs,
could not see the ingredients just her barefooted shifting one side to the other legs
She sang in clear contralto mixing with the rising scents her one into an other song
Of “Pretty Bubbles In The Air” of “gals” and “fellows” waiting for each so very long
Finally came the time a noticeable shift of excitement in the air…
The counter was wax paper floured and she sung “I Found A Peanut…” there
Pounded with her fist a rhythmic determined classical on countered tattoo
And in sudden silence lifted a round doughed circle so thin it shimmered translucent
Laid back down gently as a newborn babe she spooned in that potato mixture meant
And with fingers deft and sure as neurosurgery
swaddled dough into first blintze, each end tucked seamless edged perfectly
Repeated the process at least two dozen times or more
Then in the event of outsiders added sweetened cottage cheese precisely to their taste for
Lined into two baking pans sparkling and butter greased with cheesecloth precision
Into the oven to wait an hour to pass, we moved stealthily and watched purloined television
Tony Packo’s
Hot dogs,
Hungarian spun
Burt Reynolds
signed a bun
Max Klinger
all agog
‘bout this place
“where man bites dog.”
Back to read later. Write on, all!
Short, sweet, vivid, adorable
You had me at Packo’s. (Klinger helped sell them dogs, I have no doubt!)
Love it!
CRABS
Here in Baltimore
they eat their crabs
steamed in Old Bay
pepper-hot so they can’t
taste the sweet
of the meat
Dumped on newsprint
covered tables
a tangle of legs and claws
wooden mallets
pummel fat blue bodies
dusted with boil.
Stainless picks
move like knitting needles
to pry out the white
goodness, fingers licked
the smack of lips
sucking shells,
the burn relieved
by frosty bottles of brew.
excuse for the meal.
Myself, I fail to see
the allure of these
sea scavengers,
scrappy and anemic
pieces of work
like the denizens
who eat them.
***
Peace, LindaS-W
Oooh I can seeee them
The Best
Nowhere is bar-b-que better
than Kansas City, my friends.
When you sit to eat,
ribs, brisket, or burnt ends.
I sure hope heaven has bar-b-que fair
’cause I sure would miss it up there.
PKP, they are, lady!
Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt: Write a lullaby poem. It’s not easy to write a lullaby about local cuisine, but here goes:
Philly Cheesesteak Lullaby
Hush, little Phillies fan, now don’t you cry;
they’ll make the World Series again, by and by.
So sit back and enjoy the game, just relax,
and have some of your favorite local snacks:
soft pretzels and hoagies, a Philly cheesesteak,
and for dessert, water ice, Tastykake.
Wash it down with some beer, if that is your wish:
Dock Street or Yuengling, perhaps Flying Fish.
With your belly full, and your head a-spinning,
you’ll probably doze off before the eighth inning.
Obviously RJ and I are from the same neck of the woods. (see her Pat’s Steaks poem.)
And here’s a tanka, based just on Roert’s prompt, about some local cuisine I left out:
Scrapple
no misspelled word game
but pork product, square slab sliced
and pan-fried with eggs
don’t ask what’s in it – the whole’s
more than the sum of the parts
Bruce! I ♥ U!
You know…to this day, one of the best Philly foods I ever ate was a hot dog at Connie Mack Stadium. I realize I am dating myself, but I had one at my first ever Phillies game (the same game that my dad actually caught a baseball!) and I’ve been hooked ever since!
Bravo on your Philly Phood Phor Thought!
I’ll see your Del Ennis and raise you a Richie Ashburn
Bruce.. Love the Philly Lullaby!
Southern Style
Grandma
dips her cornbread
in buttermilk she churned
and when her teeth are set aside,
she naps.
Wow…so much in a flash of vivid image …terrific
My grandfather, toothless, lived on cornbread-buttermilk.
Love it!
Brings back so many cherished memories.
Thank You,
To Robin and the men of Perdition
Rowing with friends on the St. Johns
Through blisters and backaches and sweat
There’s one thing in mind for the crew
To leap out of our scull and get
Cheese grits, cheese grits and stout
Down home grits with sweet creamy cheddar
At nine a.m. we would certainly doubt
That anything would ever taste better
Double chocolate, tripel, IPA
Are you squaring it up at the catch?
Endless review of technique
Over beers and, why, cheese grits, natch.
Cheese grits, cheese grits and stout
Down home grits with sweet creamy cheddar
At nine a.m. we would certainly doubt
That anything would ever taste better
Oh sure, bacon and sausage and ham
Pancakes and waffles run riot
After Marley has run you through drills
There’s only one thing you need in your diet
Cheese grits, cheese grits and stout
Empty beer mugs in teetering stacks
Grease stains are all that remain
Of another morning spent at Kickbacks
A good poem can leave you wanting more … A great poem can leave you craving cheese grits when you have heard of them for the first time!
Kickbacks in Jacksonville FL. Great beer (180 on draft!) and grits with the cheese cooked right in (not melted on top). The BEST! And thanks!
Pat’s at 9th & Wharton Streets, Philadelphia
Since 1930, Pat’s has been
the most well-loved cheese steak canteen.
‘Though servers may be contrary,*
cheese steaks there are legendary!
They’re open 7/24
for cheese steaks, hot dogs, fries and more.
Menu listings seldom vary:
cheese steaks there are legendary!
Mushrooms, extra cheese or pizza
sauce goes into rolls and meats. A
gastronomic sanctuary:
cheese steaks there are legendary!
At two AM, when bars let out
you’ll find odd patrons all about.
Cops, pimps, tourist, folks who tarry…
come to Pat’s Steaks. Legendary!
###
* Note: If you ever chance to visit Pat’s (and if you’re in Philly, you should!) make sure you know what you want to order by the time you reach the ordering window – or else the counter people could be quite surly with you. (You can read the menu while waiting on line.) The staff serve the cheese steaks fast and furious because there is always a crowd – at any hour. But it’s worth it!
Okay, Walt? ☼
Hmmm, I guess that will tide me over until lunch!
hohohohoagie!
Only you could make this mouth water for something I never had any desire to seek
Day 18 – regional cuisine
Day of worship.
My cousin, a dietician,
took off from Melbourne
to serve the world.
Never got past California.
When I found her
she served up Aussie pies
all juicy beef, not salty,
the gravy almost sweet.
This was in Berkeley
in 1987. From her cafe
we drank deeply of campus
drumming. It was Sunday.
Rich to every sense…and then that last line-PERFECT!
YES!
Oooh this is a delicious poem!
This has everything, wrapped in butcher paper and tied with a string.
Favorite Foods Haiku
Oatmeal and wheat germ
Add ground flax and honey
Favorite breakfast
***
Fresh greens, red onion
Kidney beans and sharp cheddar
Simple salad bliss
(photos on my blog)
Add a large Tim’s to that breakfast and I’m across the Peace Bridge in a hurry!
You bet!
Yum….I can see this without your blog! Yum!
Shout out to the Minnesota State Fair
On a stick
pronto pups
corn dogs
candied apples
classics on a stick
ostrich
bacon wrapped pickles
spaghetti
stangeness on a stick
oreos
snickers
twinkies
deep fry them and its
sweetness on a stick
pork chops
steaks and spuds
sausage wrapped in pancakes
feasting on a stick
summer sunshine
rides and games
music and mobs of people
memories that stick
There is no state fair better than the one in Minnie-Soda. Texas thinks it’s all that, but it’s not. And half of what makes the Twin Cities rock is the food.
Aw feel like I’m just leaving…. Bravo!
Oh wonderful! I can practically taste all the yummy fair food!!
NY Pizza
The common pie
with toppings or just there plain
limited not to The Apple’s domain
Yet, something in the crisp of crust
in perfected span of stretch of cheesy string
is a saucy bewitched particular New York branded thing
I’m with you Pearl. I <3 NY!
Yep…yum!
We serve a mean one here in Apple country Ontario as well..I LOVE apple pie and cheese. I have never been to New York…sigh. Love that last line:)
Some say the pizza worth the trip
I’d take Chicago deep-dish over any NY pie!
Let the wars begin!
better pizza than Italy
love bagels we get NY bagels here dont know if they are the same as there my favourite is cinnimon and raisen lovely with lashings of butter and toasted of course
True, and the water is the difference. I miss it.
NY Bagels
Although they now have rolled from one
coast through heartland to the country’s
other side…be it water, atmosphere or
mystic legacy, remembered crumbs never
coalesce from bakers’ oven to create a
bagel any once New York-taster can abide….
FOOD FOR THOUGHT
Tasty delectibles to entice,
well presented, very nice,
just a plateful will suffice
on that, we’ll get our fill.
Morsels meant to tantalize,
good for the stomach and your eyes,
overindulgence is not wise -
don’t let it tempt your will.
But, nourishment isn’t only edible,
sometimes, it could be incredible,
for to feed your mind will leave indelible
marks upon your words.
Thoughts and ideas most impressive
are best when they can be expressive,
(and as poets we can be obsessive)
in how we make words be heard.
Offerings that fill the soul,
gives our hearts complete control,
though some words tend to take their toll
on subjects often told.
Fill your bellys when you find
rumblings of a hungry kind,
But don’t forget to feed your mind
and let your poetry take its hold.
We rise… to give you a standing ovation, Walt. This is so great!…so many great lines leading up the that perfect last stanza! Nourishment for the mind is so important…feed the mind junk and its results are as sad as a bad diet to the body…actually- more sad because thought leads to action and action touches so many lives!
STANDING ON A CHAIR RIGHT BEHIND JANETRUTH…. ( hmm just noticed Janet Ruth is Jane Truth when run together ) BACK TO APPLAUSE BRAVO,!
*Applause!*
*cheers* *whistles*
Red or Green?
Do you like your enchiladas
red or green? How about Christmas?
A little of both to spice up the dish.
Just don’t make it oh so hot.
Chili has to give flavor not have a bite.
Northern New Mexico enchiladas,
the aroma of corn tortillas,
red (or green) chili sauce,
cheese and savory chicken
bubbling in the oven,
permeating every corner of the house.
There’s no place like home
with enchiladas as the main course.
Make my Christmas,
I’m feeling adventurous today.
Hooray! Another Southwest cuisine! (I wrote about tamales and enchiladas too!) Yum.
Sounds like a true New Mexican ! are you? I wrote about red and green also……scroll down to my poem titled “Chile.”
Loved every word I bit off!
Terrific imagery! In honor of NM food, I wrote a green chile haiku. 
Dependent Cuisine
As a military brat
(and my sister says yes I was a brat)
We had no one cuisine
No regional favorite to call home food
But we ate paella in Spain
Ribs in Texas
Crème de mente pie in Michigan
Mile high pancakes in Colorado
Learned to eat Chinese in Hawaii
Learned not to eat poi.
Ate lumpia in the Philippines
Ate crab in Maryland, found farmers markets in Virginia
So no one cuisine but a fine stew of learning to eat the world.
Ah, I see why you are called the Food Poet
I love your “fine stew of learning” (and thanks for the warning about poi, I had always been curious what it tasted like).
“eat the world”. WOW …
This is one benefit of living in a military family! You’ve captured the variety so well!
Brillant you certainly have travelled some taste buds you must have by now
Dear Moosehead,
Yeah baby! Even a Queens-dwelling numbskull
like you has to admit that that’s more like it!
More like the performance we expect, more like
the horror show the Twins deserve. Got a snippy
little note from Jimmy the Greek whining about
your mother and sister driving him crazy. He should
try living with them all the time! Ass! Pick me up at 6
would ya, I wanna celebrate with a Philly Cheese Steak.
Yours cooking with gas now baby,
Ringo the Howler
This makes me smile, Ringo!! I love the voice in this!
Thanks Hannah
~POTROAST~
It could be the middle
of a raging, hot, sizzling
egg-frying on pavement,
kind of a day that forces
one to reside in the shade
on a Sunday in the midst
of deep, sticky, muggy August
and one could count on,
(just as sure of an event as
the arrival of the Newspaper),
One could rest-assured,
“the roast,” would be on.
The whole house permeated
of the garlicky, bloody meat
and an already stifling heat
could pilfer one’s breath.
Yes, it was the day of rest
then and only then
and while we waited
as kids in the yard,
we’d entertain ourselves
with seed spitting contests;
black, shiny ovals shone
in the sun, spit from
pink, juicy, dripping mouths
as we sifted our winning prospects
from the depths of thick watermelon slices.
© H.G. @P.A. 4/18/12
I remember sitting at the table long after the rest of the family because I refused to eat pot roast. So I would sit and play with crystallized chocolate milk (PDQ, I think) until my mom would come in an finally excuse me. Pot roast still uneaten.
Yum!!! I’m drooling:) This resonates with my own life..not only a treat to the taste buds, but to nostalgia as well. One I’m trying to keep alive with our own Sunday dinners.
Wow, I love the contrasts of flavors and textures in this one…between the “garlicky,bloody meat” and the “pink, juicy” watermelons…there seems to be a mix of revulsion and sweetness (or maybe that’s just me, as I’m not a fan of very potent meat smells). Once again, a vivid and vibrant composition!
I miss pot roast! But yes, miss more the Jerry, Hannah, JanetRuth, Imaginalchemy of childhood dinners! Thank you …
PS … The early animal lover is precious
Oh, my goodness, Hannah…this was THE Sunday dinner in my family for years and years…this poem brought back such great memories! Thanks!
VARSITY (WHAT’LL YA HAVE?)
Chili dogs and onion rings,
Two of my most favorite things.
A Cold PC or large FO;
Box it up, I’m good to go.
Wait a sec, how could I
Forget to get a deep-fried pie?
Step out on North Avenue
Tailgate time for me and you.
Rest assured, I’ll be back;
“Walk one southern heart attack.”
Funny, I just used “rest-assured,” too! Oh, decadent and deadly…deep fried pie. Never had that before! Smiles poem neighbor!
Thank you, Ma’ am… odd how words and phrases just sort of “show up” in clusters from time to time, isn’t it?
and “them thar” deep fried pies… apple or peach, about the size of an overstuffed taco… LUSCIOUS… gotta by the V… your life’s not complete otherwise…
g
Yep lovin that ” rest-assured”
This sounds so fun – “What’ll ya have?” ^_^
Cochinillo Segoviano
Slow roasted and regularly basted
like the land of its fathers
crisp on the outside, tender on the in
like the maiden aunts of its homeland
washed down with a fine Rioja
like the tales of its grandsires
savoured slowly not devoured wolf-like
like the young girls of its villages
finally the bones picked clean of the sweetest meat
like the legends of its forebears
the suckling pig from Segovia
born in the shadow of the Roman aqueduct
and feasted upon with family and friends
in Almería, the land the Romans forgot
known to its fans simply as “Cochi”
a young life ended too soon
to bring sustenance to the lives
worn weary by the sun.
Iain
made me want to buy more rioja’s and do a slow roast
Oh, all the food, and so little time. This sounds marvelous Iain!!
Thanks peeps
Ooh! Sounds delicious.
New England Legacy
Boston has its chowda
of the clammy style
Maine has its lobsta
caught fresh, then boiled
Rhode Island and Connecticut
have delicacies, I’m sure
As for New Hampshire, I’d say
venison is their treat de jour
Up in Vermont, known only to a few
is a hidden just off road
the delights of Curtis’ Barbeque -
ribs and chicken, slaw and beans
All homemade while you watch,
As Curtis and his family, too
prepare real Southern cookin’
from their smoker, straight to you!
Playing with rhyme, today…not the best, probably because I don’t like doing it, but like medicine, I know I need to practice it once in a bit.
I’ve enjoyed Curtis’ Barbecue many times and I still own a house close by.This famous BBQ stand received quite a write up from the New York Times and still has the longest waiting line of any restaurant in southern Vermont. Plus Putney (exit4) is a great little town to visit. Kudos to you for mentioning this in your poem!!!
Mystical-Poet – My sweetie has been going to Curtis’ for years (back when there was only one school bus! There may be lines, but it is so worth the pilgrimage each year just to see him doing his magic, catch up on how many grandkids he now has and enjoy some really great down-home cooking! And, we love Putney…great little place to visit.
Burn’d Haggis
Neeps and tatties, neeps and tatties,
a dram, and a dram, and a dram.
The foulest tasting haggis
’tis too much for any man. I have had
my fill and lost the thrill;
’tis certainly a waste, there is not
enough whiskey to kill this haggis taste.
To kill this haggis taste,one surely must be tested,
To not partake is no mistake, your taste buds will be bested.
As for this man, forgive me clan, my solution’s not absurd,
the golden archway beckons me, over 30 billion served.
Hahaha. This is great. But, what the heck is haggis?
Google: sheep’s pluck??? People eat that?
*laughing* This is wonderfully lyrical – and hilarious. ^_^
Baking Fairy
My kitchen looks like it has been hit by the bakery fairy
I have flour every where
I love to bake so I don’t care
Now where is my butter oh yes it is in the fridge
I must remember to take it out
Or my hands will think there rubbing silage
So I measure out my flour 500g will do
I am making scones for the family
Not the animals in the zoo
I rub in my butter to fine like bread crumbs
Then I add my caster sugar
And make a well in the middle for the 2 eggs
I mix this well together and then I add the milk
It is a beautiful shade of colour and feels like doughy silk
Now I add the fruit raisins they will do
There the best fruit to use
In my opinion how about you?
I fold this lot together
Its almost times to shape
I get out my cutters now
There is no escape
As I cut them in their sizes
I brush them then with some left over egg whisked
This gives them a golden brown colour
To the eye to tempting
I leave them for about 30 minutes depending on your oven
I then take them out
I take one to the side
And cut it down the middle
And on it butter is what I drizzle
Scones are so easy to bake and such fun
Especially with your children
They love to have a bun
So take them in with you
And let them discover
How to bake and make
And grow up like their father and mother
Don’t know where my comment went….maybe the baking fairy? Love the image …and fairy flour dust…mouth watering for scones ….BRAVO
Thanks i love homemade scones
“Sugar Cream Pie”
People die
as we drink our coffee
and eat a mid-afternoon pie.
His cousin
used to work with my aunt
and this thin line
is enough to make
words catch in my throat
knowing
their world
has been blown apart
and I marvel
that I cannot
hear the screams
while
we drink our coffee
and eat a mid-afternoon pie.
I’ve had these thoughts, but YOU have nailed them in powerful form!
The quintessential humanist sparkles always …. stunning
Simple and profound. Love this.
breathlessly perfect. Thank you!
HOT SALTY CHIPS
I like pizza, I like pie,
I like pasta shaped like little bow ties
I like veggies, I love peas
I’d swim in omelettes dripping with cheese
I love ketchup and mayo
tartar sauce and pickles. I relish it all
on hot salty chips from a seaside stall.
OK Foodie! I expect extra gravy from you today. Mixing the best of your worlds (poetry AND food) you should do quite well Marilyn!
Fresh and Salty… Just like you Misk
….
LOL! Indeed.
Oh, yum. ^_^ What a happy poeming day with all the food!!
I’m baking a cake right now. Choccie. Mmmmmm. Needed inspiration to write. LOL!
I feel inspired myself. ^_^
Chilli chicken
Taking my chicken
And covering it olive oil
I would rather cook it this way
Than bring it to the boil
As it fries up nicely
I turn it while it cooks
To make sure it doesn’t
Get undone or stuck
I cut up my peppers
Onions, mushrooms and thinly sliced carrots on the pan
I fry them until they are golden
They smell beautiful
I have to resist eating them if I can
I add chilli flakes crushed of course
Then a little soya sauce and balsamic vinegar to the mix
Oh I suppose we all have our little tricks
I leave it to blend up nicely
And go and make the rice
My favourite is bastami
I think it is so precise
So as the rice comes to the boil
I settle my chilli chicken on the hot plate
Now the rice is done
No more do I have to wait
My taste buds are going mad
I want to dive right in
To waste this wonderful food i have cooked would be a mortal sin
TastyKake
From the land of Brotherly Love
come foods that folks speak fondly of:
the pretzel and the famed cheese steak
but best of all…there’s TastyKake.
With Krimpets, (jel or butterscotch)
they take the ‘Yum’ scale up a notch.
Just eating one? My taste buds quake!
Why? Best of all…there’s TastyKake.
Chocolate cream-filled cupcakes rule
and as a kid, I took to school
the peanut butter Tandy Take
‘cause best of all…there’s TastyKake.
Their pies and donuts and éclairs
and Kreamies (which are sold in pairs)
are simply THE best in snack-bake.
the best of all…is TastyKake.
###
What? No Philly Cheese Steak? But, I do get the TastyKake!
lol
I’m only getting started! Still have to do pretzels (the figure eight, Philly kind,) Franks Black Cherry Wishniak soda, Levis Champ Cherry soda AND cheese steaks. (And maybe hoagies, too, ‘though I think I’ll skip scrapple.)
Funny thing, ‘though. On Wikipedia, the article writer who wrote about Philly cuisine (yeah, I was curious to see if I missed anything, to I surfed) must not be from Philly because he/she said, under soda pop, “Levi’s Camp Cherry soda.” (It’s Levis Champ Cherry soda.)
Also, Philadelphians do not say, “Soda pop.” We simply say, “Soda.”
Buffalo says pop. (Athough, going for a “pop” could also be construed as get some beers here) And there was a Visniak supplier around the block from home. I wonder if the spelling is regional or if even related in any way?
What about water ice, tomato pie, and stromboli?
*Philly pride*
RJ, the Laureate has a point! I’m just sayin’
So true, Joseph! So true! (Yum!) Think I need to make a trip to the South Philly Italian Market or maybe the Reading Terminal Market now….
Definitely *Philly Pride*!
It looks like goop
It makes you poop
What’s the scoop
on this Fiddlehead Soup?
Ha!
Nathan’s Franks
By other name a hot dog
Or even wiener
Yet in tales
Told when long skirts brushed
The grit of white sandy planks
As couples decorously strolled
To a small stand for a pure beef
Frankfurter and waffled fat fries
Legacies nostalgia held in still
Available heart-burn
in a bun
To the echoed screams
Of roller-coaster riders
Nathan’s New York
Oh, Ya! Now this is worth remembering!
Great poem! I love the images of the boardwalk (Coney Island, right?) and the way you connected a food with a moment in time when it was more than just another hotdog… it was a memory eager to happen.
Makes me feel I’ve been there!
Maryland KIng Crab
hit them hard with a mallet
salted paper air
Great visual, Pearl! Have never been able to enjoy – allergic
But sounds wonderful!
I have to admit I have never experienced this.
LOVE king crab!! Only on the 4th poem, only 10 a.m., and am STARVING!! LOL
Korean BBQ
Homemade kimchee … Hot!!!
squid, leggy octopus, piles of seasoned
and unseasoned meats
ready to be grilled on the burner in front of you,
soju, crown royal,
never pour for yourself,
always offer to pour for someone else,
you must do it correctly, left hand under your right sleeve,
and never show the bottom of your glass
to an elder or your superior,
it is very, very rude,
Karaoke! – everyone must sing, of course,
pick your song,
kumbae – means bottom ups toast,
oh, you just got a new drink,
that’s too bad,
drink up,
Korean businessmen use drinking as a tool
to determine if a potential business partner
is trustworthy,
you should still be the same person sober
as when you are really, really drunk,
hmmm, it’s bad form to leave so early,
you would not want to do that,
so tell me about your small town
in the midwest,
and how do you like it here
in the big city?
Wonderful writing/trip you just took me on.
Yes, food is so much more than just nourishment of the body.
You had me at “homemade kimchee.” Big smiles!
Yes!
I agree
Am not familiar
But YOU HAD ME
at “homemade kimchee”. Wonderful in all ways!
Loved it – want to go!
Ah, the food description is fantastic, and thank you for the etiquette lesson too!
Thanks. Yeah they are a wonderful family – nice to be immersed in another culture although at times it feels like you’re being “grilled” ( Groaner) Just wrote a summary of what happened don’t know if it’s typical all over.
I am Amazed how I react so Viscerally just to a turn of phrase like Wisconsin Fish Fry – I guess all those memories sparked by the smells and tastes just color everything from then on – wow very good to think about when writing and reading poetry – i guess i knew it but not really knew it – Thanks Robert for the prompt
BEEF ON WECK
Another Buffalo offering,
Roast beef sandwich on
a kimmelweck roll,
A horseradish garnish
and the salty seeded bun,
adds to the enjoyment
of Buffalo eating fun.
Add a dill pickle and
your favorite brew,
Roast beef on weck
is good for you!(Hey, it couldn’t hurt!)
Yum!
Not usually a fan of either but great poetry makes your ( my) mouth water… YUM,!
Another mouth watering morsel from Buffalo! When we first got there we saw all these signs for Beef on Weck. So one night early on we tried it!! You captured the essence here. Nothing like it anywhere else
BUFFALO WINGS
Frank and Theresa’s Anchor Bar,
the origin of such folly.
Not wanting to waste
they gave a good taste
to the chicken wings, by golly.
A three part dissection
for tailgate perfection.
dipped in hot sauce
they show who’s boss.
Buffalo has the best food., and you sure have captured it here.
Walt, you make me homesick for real Buffalo wings. I lived there 8 years and had them at least once a week!