2012 April PAD Challenge: Day 18

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.

*****

 

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337 thoughts on “2012 April PAD Challenge: Day 18

  1. AC Leming

    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.

  2. po

    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.

  3. LCaramanna

    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.

  4. Paoos69

    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

  5. Arrvada

    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

  6. ellanytdavve

    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

  7. mschied

    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

  8. Marian O'Brien Paul

    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

  9. PSC in CT

    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

  10. ceeess

    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

  11. Khara H.

    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.

  12. Jacqueline Hallenbeck

    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

  13. Earl Parsons

    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

  14. PSC in CT

    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?

  15. Tanjamaltija

    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.

  16. Miss R.

    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.

  17. Yolee

    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.

  18. cam45237

    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

  19. hurtin-heart

    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

  20. JRSimmang

    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.

  21. Uma

    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

  22. Lynn Burton

    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.

  23. claudia marie clemente

    * 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*

    1. Yolee

      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!

    2. claudia marie clemente

      * 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*

  24. Nancy Posey

    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.

  25. mich

    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

  26. Margot Suydam

    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.

  27. Christod

    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.’

  28. Benjamin Thomas

    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

  29. alotus_poetry

    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

  30. Janet Rice Carnahan

    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!

  31. Jane Beal - sanctuarypoet.net

    “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

  32. Linda Voit

    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

  33. Karen H. Phillips

    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.

  34. Rosemary Nissen-Wade

    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.)

  35. pmwanken

    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

  36. Angie K

    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.

  37. deedeekm

    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

  38. taylor graham

    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.

  39. gtabasso

    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?

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