A very special thank you to Barb Edler and Denise Krebs for taking care of writing hearts these past four days and, of course, to all of you for being here, for bearing witness to one another’s lives with such respect and compassion. Our next 5-day open write is October 17th through 21st with Anna J. Small Roseboro and Susan Ahlbrand. We hope to see you here again, but if you need a break or if it doesn’t happen, no worries. We will be here when you return to the virtual page. Now for day 5 of September’s open write. We welcome author Laura Shovan!
Our #OpenWrite Host
Laura Shovan is a veteran educator, poet, and children’s author. Her chapbook, Mountain, Log, Salt and Stone, won the Harriss Poetry Prize. Laura co-edited Voices Fly: An Anthology of Exercises and Poems from the Maryland State Arts Council Artists-in-Residence Program, for which she is a longtime poet-in-the-schools. Laura’s verse novel The Last Fifth Grade of Emerson Elementary won the Cybils Award for poetry and was a NCTE Notable Verse Novel, among many honors. Her other middle grade novels are Takedown, selected by Junior Library Guild, PJ Our Way, and the Amelia Bloomer List, and A Place at the Table, co-written with Saadia Faruqi.
Inspiration
Food is often our first taste of other cultures, the doorway through which we pass into curiosity, empathy, and understanding of traditions, beliefs, and practices not our own. Can you imagine a time when pizza was “tomato pie,” a “new taste treat” brought to the U.S. by Italian immigrants, as Grace Cavalieri describes in this poem? Food poems use sensory imagery to share glimpses into the author’s culture of origin or insights into a personal memory or experience.
Process
Spend some time thinking about a food memory or tradition that’s important to you. It could be the middle school basketball coach who took your team out for donuts after every winning game, learning to make a special dish at the side of a family elder, the slimy herring your aunt insists you eat as the new year begins, or even a favorite restaurant.
To brainstorm, jot down similes for each of the five senses as you “marinate” on this food memory.
It looks like…
It feels like…
It sounds like…
It smells like…
It tastes like…
And then add one last note: “It reminds me of the time when…”
Example poem:
When I work on food poems with young writers, we read and discuss Sandra Cisneros’ “Good Hotdogs.” We point out the sensory images, but also puzzle over the literal and emotional meaning of the last two lines.
I give students the option to use the text as a “cross-out” poem for their own writing. They compose directly over the text of “Good Hotdogs,” which infuses the response poems with the rhythm and cadence of the original. Student writers love this method as it provides structure, but they can really make the poem their own. [The PDF image below shows the cross-out method used for a poem in my middle grade novel with Saadia Faruqi, A Place at the Table.]
Good Hotdogs
By Sandra Cisneros
Fifty cents apiece
To eat our lunch
We’d run
Straight from school
Instead of home
Two blocks
Then the store
That smelled like steam
You ordered
Because you had the money
Two hotdogs and two pops for here
Everything on the hotdogs
Except pickle lily
Dash those hotdogs
Into buns and splash on
All that good stuff
Yellow mustard and onions
And french fries piled on top all
Rolled up in a piece of wax
Paper for us to hold hot
In our hands
Quarters on the counter
Sit down
Good hotdogs
We’d eat
Fast till there was nothing left
But salt and poppy seeds even
The little burnt tips
Of french fries
We’d eat
you humming
And me swinging my legs
Laura’s Response Poem
Mushy Peas
From A Place at the Table
One pound fifty pence,
for mushy peas.
Our shopping done,
we climb
a flight of stairs
to the fish market,
then the stall
that smells of vinegar.
Two orders of mushy peas
slathered in mint sauce,
bright green heaven
in Styrofoam cups.
We walk
through the old market square,
Nan and me
window shopping.
We eat
never thinking
this is the last time.
Your Turn
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe.
An Oral History: COVID-19 Teacher-Poets Writing to Bridge the Distance
Did you write poetry during the first days of COVID-19 school closings? Would you like to be interview for our oral history project? Click here to learn more.
There was never anything
so delicate as the frosting
on the cake my mother
used to make
— hand-whipping the cream
in the big metal bowl, the sound
of the kitchen tools banging out
a birthday song, us watching
from the edge of the door
opening, hoping for an invitation
to taste before anything went
to waste
Kevin, I can really see this scene. Precious! The end is perfect. I remember fighting over who was going to get to lick the bowl.
After circling the bookstores and museum for hours,
A sweet treat was in store
For enduring getting-to-know-you lore.
Our feet pointed us down the street to the local gelato shop
Italian ice cream in its billowing glory stared at us through plexiglass
Vibrant reds, matching my cheeks.
Creamy and decadent whites, browns.
The options were endless and my horrible decision-making skills became known
Your hand made its presence known on my back
Then I remembered you said an hour ago you were allergic to chocolate
Large, itchy hives wouldn’t pair well with gelato.
My scope narrowed.
No chocolate.
I wanted to share with you.
Clinking tiny spoons as we licked
Sour limoncello, buttery coconut, and tart raspberry
Flavors mixing and melting into nothing short of ordinary
Ice cold in our mouths as we ate
Warmth in our hearts as we laughed
I can’t wait for our next chocolate-free dessert,
But I’ll never forget the best gelato of my life
Lauryl, I actually never had gelato until I was middle-aged. It is delicious. I really like the part of the flavors mixing. The colorful imagery and sensory appeal are wonderful! Just reading this makes me hungry. Loved your line: “Warmth in our hearts as we laughed”. Delightful poem!
Laura, thank you not only for this post, but for sharing your sketch of how you adapted the model poem to create your own. One of the many reasons I love writing with this group is that I’m repositioned in the student’s chair, feeling the uncertainty then pushing through to share my words. I often tell kids to come up with 8 or 10 possibilities before deciding on one. Tonight it wasn’t until idea #8 that I remembered the nasty half powdered milk, half regular milk that my mom served us for awhile when we were kids. We all hated it.
Powdered Milk
She mixed it with the 2%
as if that could sneak it past us.
But it clumped.
It looked like sad tears from a tired cow cloud.
It felt like an overused excuse.
It’s limp slosh against my tongue
delivered a half-hearted slap to my tastebuds.
It smelled like a burb cloth.
It tasted like an imposter.
But it reminds me of the seven of us
hunched at the supper table,
watching our reflected alter egos in the window:
We were the Berryhills.
They were the Butcherbakers.
They were almost us,
but not.
We were almost them,
but not.
We were almost drinking milk,
but not.
Allison,
Wow! At first I thought this was a comical poem and made me giggle with your rich descriptions of what sounds to me like horrendous milk, but then you hit with an interesting twist. I love this! “Watching our reflected alter egos in the window” Thank you for sharing.
Allyson – Oh yes!, I remember this “nasty” stuff as well. After we moved from the farm where we drank the luscious, creamy milk straight from Silver’s (our one Jersey cow) utter, Mama served up a dose of powdered swill in St. Louis. OMG! You captured that very awful stuff …”like sad tears” and “burp cloth” (perfectly tank smell) and “imposter.”
I’m curious about the reflection in the window …that’s really got me wondering. I love the image of you all sitting there wishing you weren’t “almost drinking milk” and seeing that alter ego. There was an Iowa-born serial killer they called The Butcher Baker who killed a whole bunch of women back in the ‘70s and ‘80s. This has my head really spinning. Egads!
Let me say, I’m glad you settled on idea #8, as it got me started on some fascinating memories this morning! Hugs to you till October! Susie
Cocktail Hour
I need an elixir, a potion,
a witch’s brew to get me through
2020 since lockdown started for me on March 15.
A salving cocktail, if you will,
could maybe numb the hurt
of 200,000 (and counting)
erased from the country;
a cocktail to salve the scary fears
my friends endured,
their fevers, coughing, pneumonias,
ventilators, quarantines
away from their loved ones;
a cocktail to assuage my teacher friends
at wit’s end
on a rollercoaster of administrative indecision:
“just teach online”:
(virtual too euphemistic…far too benign),
“no wait, in-person, no wait online, no wait, hybrid, no wait both, ”
two full-time jobs
with parents at wits’ end hammering
their email keyboards morning to night
demanding answers teachers don’t have;
a cocktail that calms kids’ confusion
while adults around them play out domestic drama,
voices muzzled, ignored
day after day;
a cocktail that hushes the deniers, those ill-informed,
head-up-their-a$$, anti-logic, anti-mask,
anti-sanity spewers, hoax-mongers of breathtaking ignorance;
a cocktail to set at my feet
where my beloved old Watty used to lie,
to get me through that silence;
a cocktail that grants me sleep.
As with the Shakespeare hags
with their cauldron brewing cocktail,
there go I:
“Round about the cauldron go;
In the poison’d entrails of potus I’d throw.
Toad, his henchman rudyominous, I’d pull from under cold stone,
Boil thou i’ the charmed pot.
Double, double this toil’s no trouble;
Fire ‘em up and burn, let the cauldron bubble.
Fillet of fenny snake,
Toss in a pence, not worth a shilling, in cauldron boil and bake,
Eye of mitch and toe of frogsmillershill,
Rushian wool of jared and mal-onia tongue salivating swill,
Adder’s fork barr no truth and blind-worm’s sting,
Lizard’s leggy kellycon and vulture’s wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil ‘em till they bubble.
Double, double this toil’s no trouble;
Fire ‘em up and burn, let the cauldron bubble.”
The hangover would be worth it.
by Susie Morice©
Susie, I’m sure you know the stanza that I relate to is the one about Watty. ❤️?❤️
Susie, I adore you.
“just teach online”:
(virtual too euphemistic…far too benign)
You used your poem space (and rhyme) to point this out to me. Excellent.
The second half of your poem thrills my Macbeth-loving heart! I hope it was as cathartic to write as it was to read!
Brew on!
Gigee Biscuits
For Peggy Carter Jones
flat crusty bottom
golden brown edge
dome of fluffy white
rounded imperfectly
cracks and crags
the perfect vessel for
melted butter
drizzle of honey or cane syrup
yellow mustard and sausage
day-old leftovers revived as toast
my favorite: a bottom half with
melted hoop cheese and
one top half with strawberry jam
neither “drop” nor cut
no tools
no juice glasses
no rolling pins
only hands
to smooth and round and pat
(“pat it like a baby’s bottom”)
brown wooden bowl of
perpetual flour wrapped
in a plastic Harvey’s bag
metal canister of
drained meat grease—
bacon, sausage, unknown—
cold carton of buttermilk
make a well with the flour
pour in the buttermilk
dollops of miscellaneous grease
fingers only
(your pudgy fingers,
rings askew,
nails painted red)
to swirl the concoction into
a sticky dough
pinch it
roll it
form it
pat it
(“mark it with a B”)
all the hours
perched on the green step stool
elbows on the island
watching, mirroring, trying
matching my hands to your hands
my own attempts: imposters
too small
too large
too smooth
too lumpy
I could always spot
my lesser offering
on the pan or in the basket
all those years
and I wondered how many
I would have until
I got it right until
my hands and muscles and memory
would retain the texture,
the movement,
the ratio,
the shape
and we wondered how many
more months and weeks and days
we had left
when the Gigee biscuits
didn’t rise
didn’t brown
didn’t taste quite right
before you forgot
the days of the week
and the faces of your children
and my name,
the Gigee biscuits
weren’t the same
countless cousins and brothers and aunts
have tried to recreate
your masterpiece, your legacy
too flat
too fluffy
right shape, wrong taste
close flavor, off texture
the Gigee biscuits
have never been the same
Betsy
Your Gigee’s biscuits sound delicious. Thank you for sharing your beautiful memories of making biscuits with her.
Betsy — It made me hungry just to read this wonderful description. I want Gigee biscuits!! The feel of that dough…oooo, yeah! MMMMmmmm-mmm! Susie
Betsy, your poem is utterly lovely, and it spoke to me personally. I made bread alongside my mother. (We slapped the kneaded mound “like a baby’s bottom” when we set it aside to let it rise.)
When your poem turned (I love a poem that turns!), I was right there with you. My mom’s mental decline has been precipitous. Thank you for opening your heart in this space. I connected.
Laura, thank you for taking me back to my grandmother’s house today. I have enjoyed today’s writing time even though I had to write after class and after dinner.
Memories of Mondays
© Stacey L. Joy
On Monday’s Chili Night
We’d drive down the hill
From our house to Nana’s
For a delectable family dinner
And bellies brimming with love
Five long miles later
Her old wooden door ajar for air and us
Enough to let the spices pique
We knew
It was a two-bowl night
A two-tortillas-and-cheese-on-top night
Some added Tabasco and black pepper
Nana’s Chili, always just right to me
Scooting up close to the table
My chin parked on the doily mat
All that good stuff
Nana’s family spread
Her “good bowls and plates”
Rolled up napkins because she’s fancy
Punch bowl ladle we couldn’t touch
Because our hands were reckless
Mommie and Nana side by side
My sister and I eye to eye
Stepdad and cousin head the table
We’d eat
And laugh and talk
Joke about what Nana forgot to make this time
The cornbread or the salad
We would serve up round two
We’d eat again
And laugh and talk
I’d watch and remember
And make Chili Beans on a Monday night
Thirty years later
Stacy,
I can smell the chilli! I really could see this moment with the” rolled up napkins because she’s fancy” and “good plates”. Really feel the love and family fun in this moment.
Stacey — Now that is a table where I’d like to be pulled right up there to the doily with you. It isn’t just the super chili; it’s the whole magilla…the family and the traditions that bubble right up with those chili beans. I loved these lines
“two-bowl night”…that’s great.
This reminds me of my own mama’s cautions..we were “reckless” too. Ha! Funny!
The nostalgia of this is so soothing. A real feel-good! Thanks, Susie
Susie, oh shoot! I misspelled reckless. Blame it on Zoom Fatigue. I DETEST ERRORS! LOL. But thank you, and you would have loved my Nana and her chili. I hope to have the opportunity to write about her more in October, I feel her close by.
Stacey, this took me back to my family getting together on Sunday for football and chili. We always had a door propped open to cool down the house and for my cousins and I constantly running in and out between bites. Thank you for sharing your beautiful memory; the nostalgia this piece brought was much needed today. Thank you 🙂
Stacey, your images are so powerful that I feel like I’m right there with you. In fact, I wanted to be there with you because it sounds so wonderful! I only had one grandparent growing up, Grandma Dorsey. No cute nickname. I’m not even sure I knew what her first name was! Your experience was different than mine. I’m a little jealous. ❤️
Baklava
The first time I ate baklava
Was on a date with a guy from school
Eating at a Greek restaurant was new and cool.
The first time I ate baklava
Was a total dining surprise
I was expecting a beige brownie
The square looked familiar to me.
I flicked it with my fork, just to see.
I saw golden honey beneath
A crispy, crunchy top layer
Then other flavors to savor
As I flicked the nuts with my teeth.
Walnuts, I new, but pistachios
I sniffed and spices tickled my nose.
The first time ate baklava
Was a culinary delight.
Writing about it now.
Makes wish I had some tonight.
Me too, Anna, me too! I feel like I’m gaining weight just by reading poems tonight! I love that you chose to remember the first time trying a new food. You made me think of the first (and only) time I ate guinea pig. Quite an adventure!
This brings me back to my first time eating Baklava and your description makes me want some too.
Anna, this was so fun to read! I have never encountered baklava, and the picture you painted made me feel like it was right in front of me. Now I wish I had some too! Thank you for sharing 🙂
Anna,
Yes! You have me craving this now. I may have to make a trip to my city’s Greek restaurant tomorrow. Love your deep description and how curious you were about this incredible dessert. Thank you for sharing!
Pizza Date
It looked like
Sitting too close to you
On two dorm beds shoved together
That sank in the middle
With a laptop between our legs
And a cut pizza box as a plate
It felt like
The warmth of having you next to me
A moment of peace in the middle of chaos
Ignoring the homework we were surrounded by
My favorite memory
It sounded like
Crumbs falling all over my blankets
With Game of Thrones blaring through small speakers
Your infectious laughter bursting through the room
It smelled like
Greasy bread covered in cheese
Garlic that would linger for days
Your cologne covering my pillows
The definition of familiar
It tastes like heaven
Reminding me of the time
When we didn’t live two hours apart
Only right across the street
It tasted like heaven
Gracie, your poem evokes so many precious memories for this old lady! You make me feel that college was just yesterday. I particularly enjoy your stanza about smells.
Gracie,
I loved reading this poem. It brought tears to my eyes because that connection over a simple pizza is so much more than just a silly college room meal. This is such a special memory and I love all the details you bring into it. I could picture this scene perfectly. Thank you for sharing.
black bean and sweet potato enchiladas
warm tortillas supple for rolling
a spoonful of black beans
on sweet potato spread surface
cheese and salsa, roll them up
repeat
snuggle them into a baking dish
more salsa, more cheese
into the oven
a recipe born of favorite flavors
a highlight for return visits home
out of the oven on to the plate
rice and guacamole
a beer or margarita
mmm there so good
how come I never fix
this except when you’re home
How can this be happening? I just finished eating and my mouth is watering again! Your first stanza is fabulous. I love all the S sounds!
Jamie, I particularly loved the image you created with, “snuggle them into a baking dish” giving life to the dish that is being created. Your memory sounds so comforting and familiar. Thank you for sharing 🙂
Tuna Casserole
My mom’s tuna casserole meant it was a Friday during Lent
Or that the government was late on sending out
Dad’s survivor benefits check again
Mom was not a creative cook,
When clearly value was placed on quantity over quality
With so many good Catholic mouths to feed
The casserole was plopped on the table, piping hot
Campbell’s Condensed Mushroom Soup
Mixed with a couple of cans of tuna and some noodles
How I hoped I didn’t get one of the crunchy ones-
The ones that weren’t quite mixed in
But were stuck at the top to toughen
For some of us, the tuna casserole was our worst nightmare,
For others, the ecru globs of goo
Left us wanting second helpings
The calorie-laden concoction was always better with crushed potato chips on top
The heaping spoonfuls of mom’s tuna casserole reminded us
That we had each other, and a mom who would always be there for us
I know that recipe, but your words are so much more precise! And potato chips DID make it better!! Your first stanza was perfection—for us, it was when Dad was laid off! Thanks for the memory—but I don’t think I’ll add it back into my repertoire…
Mo — This just made me laugh out loud. Tuna noodle casserole “plopped on the table” of our house as well. At first, I remember liking it, and then…egads….it was so much like you described. This…
Just so funny. And the potato chips on top…well, that was like up-town Tuny casserole! LOL! A fun memory! Thanks, Susie
Mo, I connected to so much in your poem.
In your first lines, you use a mere 25 words to tell us about your family, the era, the struggles, the purpose. Your use of poetry’s shorthand is awesome.
I love how you both detest and honor this casserole of your past. I, too, grew up with this concoction–and then I served it to my own kids! I’m not only thinking about the food itself now, but also the implications you revealed. So good.
Mo, sorry it wasn’t a pleasant memory for you. Tuna Casserole was plopped down in our Lutheran household pretty often when I was growing up. I actually loved it, I think because it had potato chips in it. I even made it after I got married. Such weird foods we ate back then! Seemed like cream of mushroom soup went in many things! I still make green bean casserole with it!
I teach a fifth grader in a gifted ELA class, so we both did the lesson together. I wrote about gumbo and she wrote about crawfish, both part of Louisiana culture. We used the poem Good Hotdogs in a Google doc and edited to create two different poems. Great class activity, Laura. Thanks!
Good Gumbo
By Margaret Simon after Sandra Cisneros
Three tickets a bowl
At the Gumbo Cookoff
We’d walk
Down each row
Booth to booth
Hear the calls
“Gumbo here! Get your gumbo here!”
That smelled like roux
You ordered
Because you had the tickets
Two bowls, two spoons, one scoop of rice
Everything in the gumbo
Except oysters
Dash of tabasco
Into smooth brown gravy
All that good stuff
Sausage, onions, smoked chicken
And potato salad on top
Ladled into a styrofoam cup
Paper napkins to hold hot
In our hands
Tickets in the box
Sit down in the shade
Good gumbo
We’d eat
Sipping the spoon till there was nothing left
But watery juice
Each savory grain
Of rice
We’d eat
you humming
And me swinging my legs
Good Crawfish
By Chloe W after Sandra Cisneros
A miniature lobster
To fill our stomachs
We’d run in the water
Straight for the crawfish
Bringing it home
Holding it with two hands
Then in the boat
It goes
To eat it with you
I kiss a crawfish and wave goodbye
Because you gave the money
You were happy
with what you have
Everything on the crawfish
Except a bit of spice
Dash crawfish in the
Pot to cook for the day
Into the sauce that
Has ketchup and mayonnaise
All that good stuff
Suck the juice
And eat the meat
Roll it in the
Sauce nice and hot
In our hands
Munching slowly
Sitting down
Good crawfish
We’d eat
Fast till there was nothing left
But you think of
The little crawfish
Friend that you
Smell every bite
you humming
And me sleeping to
The food that
Put me
To sleep
Margaret, what fun! Your student will remember this activity and the time you spent nurturing her as a writer, and the culture of the bayou is shared with all of us. I love “I kiss a crawfish and wave goodbye.” This is a beautiful image!
Hi, Margaret. Your poem had me wondering how you choose which crawfish booth to sample. The “all that good stuff” section made my mouth water (potato salad on top, yes please!)
Chloe did such a great job! I love the way she used one syllable words here: “Suck the juice/ And eat the meat/ Roll it in the/ Sauce nice and hot.” Somehow, that shows me that the speaker is concentrating on eating, not talking.
Love both of these!
Even though I’m not a crawfish lover, it makes me want to stroll along with you and try the good kind!!
I just realized I shouldn’t read these poems on an empty stomach! I love what you and your student did here. Great activity.
Ditto on both responses! Reading these makes me hungry or nostalgic for times of writing with students.
Thank you for the fun prompt! Lots of ideas… but this food combo was the one that seemed most fun today.
Tradition
“One large popcorn
PLAIN
No butter
One M&Ms
And 2 medium root beers
Please and thank you.”
Dad speaks clearly, leaning in
to the teenager who dutifully scoops up our snack
I stand by, as he takes a large stack of napkins from the dispenser.
In the theater under dim lights,
Dad, a mad scientist grinning wildly, eyebrows raised
at this genius recipe.
Cracking open the box of M’s
Puck puck puck
They are sprinkled in.
The lights lower
Credits roll.
Fingers rustle in the bucket
Picking out the perfect greasy proportion:
one slightly melted shiny candy
To a handful of salty popcorn
Alternate with sips of icy root beer
And begin again.
We crunch happily
Watching it all together.
Emily, thank you for this poem. My dad did the same thing with Milk Duds! When I read your poem, I can hear the sound of him shaking the popcorn so the candy spreads through the kernels.
Emily—what a picture you create! I wish someone had taught me that trick! (At every holiday, my husband mixes m&m’s and peanuts in a bowl. So boring now that I know about this!
Em — this is downright sweet! And literally…salty sweet. I might just have to mix up some popcorn and M&Ms! That you and your dad did this is really quite priceless. You should give this to him for Father’s Day next year…with a jar of popcorn and a bad of M&Ms and a couple bottles of Fitz’s rootbeer…you’ll make him tear up! Love this!
I must thank, thank, thank Laura, Denise and Barb for this five days of variety, challenge, creativity and most of all ENJOYMENT for these prompts during the last five days. I am looking forward already for October.
Hugs to all!
Salsa
Day One
Sitting around a hand woven tablecloth
of blue, red and magenta
a few blocks from my hotel
to the closest cantina
(but wouldn’t serve beer on a Sunday.)
The table was set with
a stack of tortillas
and a row of five clay bowls
filled with concoctions
of red and green –
new to me!
Take a taste.
Roasted tomatos and salt
with everything spicy,
flavors of cloves and cilantro,
onions, and garlic,
vibrant and herbal.
Some smokey in smell and
bitter, yet sweet.
One chunky and another more smooth.
Names of molcajote, verde or roja de arbor.
Gifts from the Aztecs.
“Try each one!” I was encouraged.
A soft tortilla in hand
I dipped.
Putting it between my lips
a flavor of tartness and pepper
I felt the heat.
Tongue burned, ears rang and my eyes watered.
Now wished for that beer to ease my pain.
“These are flavor enhancers?” I asked
and knew at that moment
I was in for thrilling newness
in the days to come.
I love your last stanza because so often, flavors are associated with that feeling of newness, a new place. I can taste that salsa, you describe the flavors very intricately. I’m hungry now!
Susan, you share such wonderful details — from the colors on the tablecloths, to the ingredients, to the names of the salsas. All of this allows the reader to experience the newness with you.
The last stanza pulls all those sensations together! I would like to join you in that adventure!
Coffee
My grandfather and I shared coffee on Sunday mornings–
mine mostly cream and sugar; his black.
We would wake early, letting Grandma sleep in.
This was our time.
The silver coffee pot burbled as sun streamed through the window.
We would dunk Skorpers* and talk about three-year old things–
puppies, and my new sister,
and the dress Grandma was going to sew for me that day.
And love.
The aroma of freshly brewed coffee on Sunday mornings was love.
We were the only people in the world that mattered.
Coffee is punctuation–
In the morning it is a wake-up exclamation point,
a comma in the afternoon as I pause from work,
A semi-colon after dinner with friends, before we say goodbye.
A question mark–want to meet for coffee?
Coffee is never a period. Coffee is a beginning
or a continuation,
never an ending–each cup sweetened
with the glow of those mornings long ago–
Sun shining, cream swirling in a steaming cup, grandpa at the table.
Love.
*Skorpers are a uniquely Scandinavian treat–sort of a cinnamon-sugar zwieback made to dunk in coffee. Although I haved moved far away from the Swedish town of Jamestown, NY, I still order bags of them for my morning coffee to be shipped to me. And I still think of Grandpa every time I dunk that first bit in my coffee.
Laura–this brought back so much joy–thank you for the concept, amd for your wonderful poem.
Gayle, I love the way you compare coffee to punctuation, and I’m not even a coffee drinker! Such a great perspective.
Coffee is punctuation–
In the morning it is a wake-up exclamation point,
a comma in the afternoon as I pause from work,
A semi-colon after dinner with friends, before we say goodbye.
A question mark–want to meet for coffee?
Coffee is never a period. Coffee is a beginning
Like Sharon, I also responded to this Coffee as punctuation stanza. You hit the nail on the head. There’s so much said about this social drink in one little space. You made me feel that relationship you have to all people, and quite honestly, made me miss coffee breaks. Beautiful!
Such a beautiful poem, Gayle…I’m imagining you remembering your grandfather every single day (maybe even multiple times a day!) with coffee – that’s really incredible! So very tender and sweet. I love,
I may have to get my hands on “skorpers”! You have tempted me.
http://ecklofbakery.com/
Here is their website!! Be sure to order the cinnamon scorpers!!
Sharon chose the same section I chose as my favorite – –
Coffee is punctuation–
In the morning it is a wake-up exclamation point,
a comma in the afternoon as I pause from work,
A semi-colon after dinner with friends, before we say goodbye.
A question mark–want to meet for coffee?
I love the way the coffee pot burbled…..I hear that percolator readying to offer the aromatic, steaming brew to the two of you. This is simply priceless – memories, stories, love. The punctuation marks should be shared with Folgers marketing division – what a clever way to show its versatility.
Gayle, you are so welcome. What a beautiful memory to share. I connected with your special tradition because I used to cozy up with my English grandmother when we visited and have milky tea with her before she got out of bed. “Coffee is never a period, it is a beginning,” made me smile.
Gayle — This is really cool…the Coffee is punctuation is really genius! I so love that…I would never have thought of that…just really so spot-on! I see Sharon listed them below…I totally concur…great lines! And the idea of sharing coffee with a grandparent is so precious. I never had that opportunity…my grands were all gone when I came along and discovered coffee. A precious time for you and your grandfather! Sweet! Thanks, Susie
A lovely end to this month’s prompts. I will always talk about food! Thank you for such an upbeat finish, Laura. I love the cross-out model poem approach and will also try that, but this prompt brought back a memory I want to capture, especially now as this year’s cucumbers and tomatoes are starting to fade.
Matka Provides
Each summer
the Kamerska’s would motor
up and down the street in that
third gen pea-green Dodge Dart
Stop in front of the house
with kids piled on the stoop
Ask if our matka was home
“We have warzywa to sell.”
Over the open trunk
my mother would select
fresh picked that morning
tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers
onions, radishes, corn
We would hang back and wait
while they talked adult
sharing farm stories
collecting eggs, herding cows
digging potatoes, picking berries
On her way into the house
arms loaded with goodness
we each got to choose one
this week a tomato or
this week a cucumber
She left us in a wake of silence
that first bite – a symphony
of crunch and slurp
closing in harmony
“Mmmmmm”
I love the end of this! I really identify with that first bite of fresh picked grown tomato. One can’t beat the taste. I look forward every year for “my arms to be loaded” with such goodies.
I love the moment of choosing which vegetable to eat and then the satisfaction after… gave me that feeling of being a very loved child.
My favorite phrase—while they talked adult. So much in four words! Your poem put me right there with you—I could practically smell the veggies!
Mmm. Nothing better than a just-picked tomato or cucumber in the summer. Wonderful sensory detail in this poem. I especially loved the “pea-green Dodge Dart”!
Grandma’s Magic
Up before dawn, on a cold, Minnesota morning
in the dimly lit room,
apron tied at her ample waist,
she begins her alchemy of love.
Combining scentless ingredients
into a large bowl,
with love she kneads and kneads her magic.
While I, cozy asleep under the familiar embroidered quilt,
dreaming the dreams of a safe, innocent child,
am slowly and gently roused by the smell
of wonderous bread baking.
Warm, brown, crusty loaves
with infinite little holes to
catch the sweet, salty butter.
Sleepy-eyed, I stumble into the kitchen
following the scent,
knowing the magic that awaits.
There is Grandma
holding out her plate of magic to me
with that knowing smile on her face.
Judi Opager
September 23, 2020
Judith, your poem feels so warm and safe. In addition to the comfort it creates, these are my favorite lines:
her alchemy of love
her plate of magic
Hi, Judith. I am a bread baker, so your stanza describing those warm crusty loaves — I could even imagine a smell!
Her alchemy of love… what a perfect phrase—and then the ending—her plate of magic. Bread is magic, isn’t it!? Beautiful scene you gave us, Judi!
I love the double duty of this stanza – literal eating and fond memories caught up in your imagery.
Warm, brown, crusty loaves
with infinite little holes to
catch the sweet, salty butter.
Makroud el louse
I remember the celebration,
you returning from Algeria,
opening your suitcase,
setting the small muslin bag
at the center of the table.
How mesmerized I was,
unveiling the parchment paper within,
wrapped around
your mother’s homemade
cookies shaped like diamonds.
A stream of Arabic ensued,
from all the guys,
your friends,
your countrymen,
as they clamored with delight,
at the sight of these treats.
So many hands reaching
at once, and
you, laughing, blocking,
not letting me taste,
until I successfully echoed you,
““Makroud el louse,”
my first attempts
met with teasing laughter.
At last, the delicacy,
almond and orange,
soaked in powdered sugar
melting in my mouth.
How long did I sit invisibly
alongside you and your friends,
in that Arabic fog,
picking at the remnants,
the delicious crumbs?
I saw how sweet we had been,
now, empty and gone.
This was the first time I realized
you can be both fully present and
also hold
what was.
Maureen,
This is beautiful. The image of hands teaching into the pile for the almond and orange sweets reminds me how humans have common desires. One of my favorite travel activities is tasking new candy and buy them as gifts for friends. Such a sweet memory. Thank you.
—Glenda
Maureen, I really like this “taste” of Arabic culture. I sense in it a bit of making the woman invisible and it seems in your last words “I saw how sweet we had been, now, empty and gone” that this relationship has changed dramatically and you pick “at the remnants, the delicious crumbs” of memory.
Oh, Maureen. I saw how sweet we had been, now empty and gone. This struck a chord in me that I can’t even explain. Wow.
Maureen, I love how the opening of your poem expresses what a process it was to go through the suitcase, peel back the layers of wrapping, and reveal the treat inside.
As you begin to describe them it’s as if they are treasures: small muslin bag at the center of the table, unveiling parchment paper within, cookies shaped like diamonds – a cinematic presentation. Followed by the need to say their name. Before the anticipated bite. I want to copy the sweet’s name to find them or find a recipe for them. Thank you for the introduction.
Childhood
Hot dogs
Frozen meals
Kraft mac-n-cheese
Hamburgers
Fast food
Tamales from a can
Sandwiches
Cereal
Cookies, cakes, and sweets
Kool-Aid
Pop Tarts
Velveeta cheese and Spam
Got a smile out of me on that one! Some on that list were not what my mother would allow, but I got to experience them as an adult, Spam actually being one of those! The back and forth between general nouns (sandwiches, cereal, cookies, cakes, and sweets) and actually naming brands was effective. Even some of those brand names have become the commonly accepted noun.
This reads like a song, a song of childhood delights! Oh, my, I think we should all throw adulthood aside for a day and eat like this once again!
Sharon,
Love how you went for childhood favorites. Mine was the TV dinner and the top-and-bottom-crust chicken pot pies. Oh, you bring back the memories with the Mac and cheese and the pop tarts. And Kool Aid, only we had Mr. Tickle. Love this!
Remember that? Sharon, I grew up with all of these foods too. Hot Pockets, Swanson dinners, and Spaghettios were big at our house. Your list of foods takes me back to that time.
Did my mother feed you!? I believe that was our shopping list (with the exception of fast food—we didn’t have that). But Velveeta and Spam? Classic combo!!
Laura, thanks so much for today’s prompt. It brought up so many food memories for me. I decided to talk about a cookie we used to make. It is probably one of my fondest memories. Dedicated to Rich and Renee, my younger siblings…fraternal twins.
Boiled Cookies
When the summer sun was
Too hot to bare
We’d make a treat
We’d cool downstairs
A chocolate delight
Nestled in the cold deep freeze
A magical boiled cookie
Tasty as an autumn breeze
What I wouldn’t give
To relive one youthful summer day
Free of caloric worries
And always full of play
Barb Edler
23 September 2020
Oh, I want to try this! “A magical boiled cookie”? Who knew!
Barb, was the magical boiled cookie by any chance a mashed potato cookie with the powdered sugar and peanut butter? It sounds heavenly. What wonderful memories of cooking up delightful sweets.
Last stanza revision:
What I wouldn’t give
To relive one youthful summer day
Free of guilt or worries and
Eating boiled cookies with Renee
That middle stanza had my tongue tingling, Barb! Several poems today associated a food with a season.
Barb—your last stanza says it all. And I really need to know what that magical boiled cookie consisted of!
Gayle, It was a concoction of cocoa powder, oatmeal, peanut butter and milk and sugar. Very similar to a no baked cookie, but these were boiled and that’s what we called them. Plus they really did need the freezer to set up. I tried to put some of the details into my draft, but it just wasn’t working. I just remember we lined them on wax paper on a silver tray. Sheer heaven.
Barb — You’ve piqued my curiosity…I’ve never even heard of a boiled cookie! How fascinating. Sounds yummy! Susie
HI Laura, I’m super pumped about the prompt today. I’m also super pissed off that I can’t write before class begins. It was one of those mornings. Thank you for allowing us to write with you today. I look forward to breaks in the day to work on my draft. As beautiful and as fun as your poem is, the end sucker-punched me. Oh how I remember those feelings of not knowing it was the last time.
Can hardly wait to write today!
Thanks, Stacey. I look forward to reading what you come up with! My goal with this poem was to show that grief is not only for a person, but for all of the experiences (and meals) we shared with them.
Foiled [c]ola
Silver wrapped gift
in a paper bag
I’d carry
from the bottom
A promise
of lunch table envy:
12 ounces of chill cola
1 “love you”-scribed napkin
Must mean
I’m loved
Maybe more than
milk-carton gulpers
Then out of the cubby
I grab the paper handle
not from the bottom
The promise drops
Spinning, fizzing
Across the linoleum hall
A river of cola
Love-you
soaking up envy
Shame shouting
Giggles echo
On my knees
I mop
my lunch
sipping
a carton of milk
offered by the custodian
Sarah, oh my gosh, I could totally visualize this entire scene. The days of lunch in a lunch room crammed with kids….it is a kind of horror of its own. I’m glad you had a friendly custodian. I was particularly drawn to the note inscribed napkin. How precious!
Love the imagery in these three precious lines:
Milk just doesn’t compare!
Oh, that imagery of mopping up the cola and the Love You fading in the liquid. And you were so excited about it – carrying it so carefully. It’s heartbreaking, really, that you dropped the bag and your good-feeling drink and note were ruined. From excitement to sopping it up in a matter of seconds. I’m sorry……
“The promise drops
Spinning, fizzing
Across the linoleum hall”
Oh, that childhood moment when our dreams come crashing down. You capture it so well here, Sarah. Isn’t it curious which memories our brains choose to remember?
Oh, Sarah—from the sublime to misery in a matter of seconds. I felt your pain…Love-you soaking up the envy. Oh, dear.
Man oh man, the dreaded lunch disasters as a child. I love your poem although it brought up some stuff I rather not remember. Something about my thermoses that would always shatter and then the drink was like poison. But thank goodness for the friendly custodian. My mom always said be nice to the custodian and the office manager. I get it.
What a sweet treasure though to have a special napkin to remind you that you’re loved. Wow.
Sanma Takikomi Gohan
By: Emily Yamasaki
Three hours of prep,
For Sanma Takikomi Gohan
The worst part,
Gutting the fish
Washing it out
Before searing
It smells of frying fish.
Into the rice maker
Enoki mushrooms
Ginger wrapped with seasoning
The smell
Taking over the kitchen,
You and me
A special meal made
On special occasions
Nothing you’ll find on a calendar
Just you and me
When we need
Emily,
I love the movement in these poems, that seems to come from the propositions but also from the listing format of this structure. I see, feel you adding ingredients, but really the most important word was the coordinating conjunction “and” between “you” “me.” Love this.
Sarah
Emily, your poem is so full of love…I really enjoyed the repetition of “you and me” which helped solidify the importance of this meal. I was drawn to the scents I could imagine scenting the kitchen. Beautiful poem!
This is cooking as art, cooking as love – three hours prep for “Just you and me/When we need” – sounds so very special and delicious!
What a beautiful poem, Emily. It feels like receiving a “just because” gift from a dear friend or family member. I love the detail of the wrapped ginger.
Oh Emily, this poem is like a rescue from the poems that I’ve felt such deep pain and sadness. I absolutely adore it. Smells yummy in my head!
Laura, I love this prompt and knew instantaneously what I’d write about.
Apologies to younger folk who get grossed out by weird food. ?
Grandma’s Headcheese
Grandma crushes hog head
Scoops brain from its cranial case
Leaves an eye floating in a jar on the
Kitchen counter to observe
Fixings mixed with spices.
Two hooves tossed in
Prevent the oinker from
Running away from its culinary fate.
Add the tongue after peeling.
There’ll be no squealing to
His little piggy siblings.
To a child enamored by the
Sight of an eyeball
Bouncing in liquid
On the kitchen counter
Head cheese terrine tastes tasty.
Years later Grandma whipped up
Head cheese for this college student
Longing to savor home cooking.
Biting into memories of that
Kitchen countertop floating eye
I gagged on the gelatinous glob.
A pleasant childhood memory
Congealed into evocations of
Poe’s vexing eye, the hideous hog heart
Beating haunts me. I cannot Confess the
Bitter tastes of twice-brined memories.
—Glenda Funk
Glenda, I loved this! From the strong verbs (“crushes,” “scoops,” “tossed,” “whipped”) to the humor (to “Prevent the oinker from / Running away”, “There’ll be no squealing to / His little piggy siblings”) to the allusion (Poe’s “Tell-Tale Heart”), this was a delight. I mean, gross, lol, but also delightful!
Glenda,
This is a wonderful example of Rudine Sims Bishop’s lesson on mirrors, windows, and sliding glass doors. You have created a door for us to walk into your kitchen to witness the eyeball in the jar and Grandma scooping brains.
Sarah
Glenda, wow the images and descriptions are so striking throughout this poem. I never saw headcheese made, but I turned down plenty of tongue I saw my father cook on the stove. Your poem really brought back some powerful memories for me! Loved your poem! The end was priceless!
Here’s where our memories fail us! Ha! I love these two lines,
“Leaves an eye floating in a jar on the
Kitchen counter to observe”
and seriously hope that I am a spunky Grandma like this! Ha! She clearly knew kids. (And – it DOESN”T carry over to adulthood…well, maybe for all those pals who went into science and laboratories….)
Glenda, oh – the morbid fascinations of the discovery of the truths of our food and the goodness we enjoy. It’s a fixation I’m glad you shared – – poor piggy, but lucky family who get to eat and savor the tastes.
I loved you “twice-brined memories,” Glenda. The speaker’s point of view in this poem balances nostalgia, grossed-out-ness, and humor, so that the reader shares these complex reactions — quite a porketic feet (I mean, poetic feat)!
So gross and so spot-on. So many things I grew up eating are inedible for me now!! But you laid it all out there in its beauty, with humor and horror in equal doses. Bravo, Isabella!
Glenda — You sure did right by the visceral sensory description…egads…the eyeball — yes POE! I can’t EVEN imagine putting that in my mouth… “congealed” and “bitter” and gelatinous glob” … oh man, I’m gagging now! EEK! I can’t help but wonder how our parents and grandparents ever even came up with such an idea of cooking up and congealing the stuff into “headcheese”….even the name is gross. LOL! This is a dandy piece! I think I’m going to go to bed now and have nightmares! LOL! Susie
You had me at gelatinous. I have issues. Couldn’t really stomach this one. LOL. I love that you shared it though. Maybe I’ll peek at it tomorrow. One of these days I need to write about my Jell-O issues from childhood.
Food?
There’s this meme that’s
been “going around”
recently where several
non-food items — cameras,
billiard balls, a can of hard
seltzer — are cut in half to
reveal that they are really
made out of cake.
Cake.
The cognitive dissonance
this creates is amazing.
(They even have food ones,
too, where an eggplant
or head of lettuce Is
really a moist chocolate
cake.)
This is to say when I
bring up food, it’s
really not about the
food.
It’s about the fellowship,
the camaraderie,
the breaking of bread,
because, to be honest,
I don’t remember much
of the food from when
I was growing up.
I’m sure we had pizza
on Friday nights and
certain restaurants we
frequented — in fact, there
was an Italian place,
Dominics, that closed
while I was growing up.
I would get Mostaccioli,
that was my go-to dish,
and apparently, it was the
meal I was eating at the
time my sister, during
some family outing or
other, decided to actually
“come out.”
She said I dropped my
fork and a piece of
Mostaccioli plopped
out of my mouth.
I suspect she is
embellishing a bit,
stirring in some
added details, a pinch
of truth here, a dash
of creative license
there. Sure, I
probably was eating
Mostaccioli at the time,
as I’ve confessed, that
was my go-to food,
but I don’t remember
being aghast or awed
or whatever other emotion
she felt I was filled with
to not have my mouth closed
while I was chewing.
I remember, simply,
that everyone Was Good
with it. It was a non-issue,
like commenting on the
weather or the fact that
there was undoubtedly a
Trig test coming up later
in the week.
(This is not to say that I’m
somehow equating my
sister’s sexual orientation
to the fickle nature of Michigan’s
weather patterns or the
various interplayings of
sine and cosine functions
(Wow, what breadcrumbs did
we follow to get here?))
What I’m saying is that
it isn’t really about the
food
until, of course, it is.
Several crammed
bookshelves — an
entire bookcase and a
half in fact — can attest
to that.
My wife and my mother-
in-law, proud Italians both,
are straight-up
legit cooks.
And I remember — this
was early in our relationship,
maybe only a few months —
I remember being
served mac & cheese
for the first time,
and I was like, uh,
why isn’t this yellow?
“Oh, that’s because
it’s real.”
This blew my mind.
My Kraft Mac & Cheese,
my very childhood, was
based on a lie, a neon
Yellow — not-found-in-
nature — colored lie.
It was really made
out of CAKE!!
Ok, I’m kidding. I’m
being a bit facetious,
but have you
tasted real mac and
cheese?
It’s delicious.
Well, sir, I am smiling. Really — lots of joy here for me. First, I think your writing offers a wonderful site for grammar instruction that is way, way better than worksheets. You are using dashes and parentheses, commas and question marks as brush strokes. This is how I hear your voice and would certainly be able to pick you out at a poetry reading having never actually met you. I am also smiling because after class, I made instant mac and cheese and mixed in broccoli. Yellow dinner through and throughr, and I loved it! But, seriously, I wish it had been cake.
So enjoy your writing,
Sarah
Scott, I so enjoy reading your poetry, wondering where this trip will head. I was particularly drawn to how your sister interpreted your reaction to her “coming out” conversation. I think it is always interesting to hear what others believed happened during family events. I am sure I have had some real mac n’ cheese, but probably not as good as what your wife cooked. Thanks for sharing such a delightful reading trip!
Scott,
I have so many thoughts about the bread crumbs I followed as I read your poem, but first this:
Yep, we’re not really talking about food at all in these poems, all of which evoke numerous food memories for me. Your poem has me wanting to revisit food in literature. There was a popular book series a while back that built plot around recipes, and I remember loving “Like Water for Chocolate.”
I also wonder what role gender plays in our food memories. Do women who grow up in the kitchen remember food experiences differently? I was so surprised when you said you don’t have many food memories. I’m making a list of all I want to explore.
Anyway, I always love the free-flow of ideas in your poems and the interconnected images.
Scott, super poem. I love the way you have a warm and comfortable relationship with your readers. This was just so fun. I read the mac and cheese section to my husband, who also had a childhood based on a lie, he laughed aloud.
This is absolutely delightful. Absolutely adored that parenthetical about Michigan weather and sine/cosine – you connected calculus to cake! That’s pretty cool.
I love the invention of non-food items being filled with cake. Being an artist, I want to make some of these. What nice surprises they hold.
Then I giggled at the non-yellow mac and cheese. Yes, Kraft sure has added a colored lie among others given to our children. Then there’s the funny story about your sister’s coming out. What delicious things to put all around food. Thanks.
Scott, this is an engaging conversation with you, just listening to what brilliance your pen spins. You have an amazing way of going back to a moment and just talking us through it, taking us with you to see the non-yellow Mac and cheese and to raise our eyebrows in wonder with you about the meaning of life.
Ha! “Why isn’t this yellow?” cracked me up, Scott. I married into an Italian family and my experience of food benefitted enormously.
“This is to say when I
bring up food, it’s
really not about the
food.”
That’s exactly the space we are working in today with this prompt.
Scott — Once again, here I am laughing out loud. Geez, I needed this tonight! The whole darned thing… the cake…too weird and too funny. I can’t help but thing my brain would insist that a head of lettuce that turned out to be cake would taste oddly like lettuce. But the mac and cheese “lie” was priceless. I remember making it from scratch for my niece and she would not touch it because it wasn’t “proper yellow” like the Kraft box. LOL! I’m also laughing that mostaccioli (or however you spell it) being your go-to food is pretty funny. Here in St. Louis it was that running joke of every wedding I ever went to when I was young… that standard reception fare. Ha! It’s fun to think of your wife and mother-in-law as “straight-up legit cooks”… you’re a lucky man! Fun food poem! Thanks, Susie
Yellow cornbread baked in
A square aluminum pan
“MIRRO”
The Finest Aluminum
“Made in U.S.A.”
8” x 8”
Jiffy Cornbread
Prepared according to the recipe
Not with an extra egg
I would later learn to use
For increased density.
Margarine for added
Flavor, I suppose.
Eaten with beans.
Beans and cornbread
For mom and me
Saturday nights.
Katrina! So love the pace of your poem, this snapshot into your life. Feels simple and yet not basic. Feels good, just good, when all was right in the world on this Saturday night with Jiffy cornbread and your mom.
Sarah
Katrina, I love the very specific details from the pan the bread is being backed in to what the bread is being served with. I never knew about putting in an extra egg…now I am tempted to try to find some jiffy to try it out. I adore cornbread! Thanks for sharing such a wonderful food memory!
Katrina, I LOVE cornbread. I am in love with your poem, especially that it’s simple and matter of fact, basic like the cornbread and beans. I can feel the warmth and substantial goodness of sharing this meal with your mom, your Saturday night ritual.
Katrina,
This makes me hungry. That Jiffy cornbread is so symbolic of American life. We are beans so often as a kid that I avoided them for decades until my brother moved into our basement six years ago. He likes beans, so we’ve reintroduced them and cornbread into our dinners. I love the details about the pan, and the detail about adding an egg to increase density.
—Glenda
Yes! There’s nothing like Jiffy cornbread and beans. Oh, the Southern Soul comfort cooking of beans and cornbread. I needed this reminder of simplicity of the goodness of life today.
Katrina, I love how you save “Mom and me” for the very end of the poem. It’s like adding a secret ingredient to a recipe to find that moment of togetherness at the poem’s close.
love the references to culinary icons – Mirror and Jiffy; love the references that show you’ve grown in the kitchen an extra egg and margarine followed by the question; sometimes I don’t remember where I collected some of those cooking tips
Thank you to Barb, Denise, and Laura. What a great variety of prompts. Each day was a challenge and a joy. Here is my food memory. And now I must have a donut.
Donut Day
By Nancy White
Sunday morning
The paper is here with the smell of newsprint
As we scramble for the “funnies”, today in color!
We divided them up so all would be content with our favorite sections
Mama liked her slick booklets of clothing ads.
But, the best part was Dad arriving
with donuts!
Ahhh the smell of maple bars and
Look, he got sprinkles, chocolate and strawberry.
But I knew what was best—
The big beautiful glazed ones that were still warm,
fresh from the oven.
I took a big bite savoring the slight crackle
as a sticky cloud of pure joy dissolved in my happy mouth.
Of course one washed it down with fresh cold milk.
Hmmm—there are more donuts!
The glazed ones had disappeared, so the obvious second choice looked me in the eye.
Devil’s Food! Thick and cake-y, dark with the delightful
delicate crunch of dark chocolate icing.
Back to the paper. Peanuts today was Snoopy and next my favorite—Nancy and Sluggo!
The donut crumbs had softly snowed upon my page.
Not to worry.
The basset hound below eagerly inhaled them
As I lifted my comics, buzzing with sugar
and family warmth.
Nancy,
Those last lines just warmed my heart:
The image of the hound and comic, the feeling of a sugar buzz — so sensory, so comforting.
Sarah
Oh, Nancy, I adore this poem; especially the end. I can feel the sheer joy of this Sunday morning of eating donuts. That is also when we might get a donut (Sunday after church). I forgot all about Nancy and Sluggo, but I know I read those comics too. So many memories developed in my mind while reading your poem; I think it was because of how well you shared the sight and flavor of the donuts. Delightful poem! I thoroughly enjoyed it!
Nancy,
You’ve woven two stories into one in a harmonious song of Sunday. I see your basset hound tipping his head toward the table awaiting a snowy cascade of crumbs. That image is my favorite. Your poem evokes so many donut memories. Maple bars are my favorites. I’m imaging an anthology of donut poetry. ?
—Glenda
I knew I shouldn’t have read this poem! I have a terrible sweet tooth, and now I really want a donut.
Nancy, the first few lines of your poem show the reader that this was a beloved family tradition. Wow, I love the moment you describe taking a big bite that makes the donut crackle!
Hi Nancy,
I want a donut or two!! Yummmy memories and fun poem to read. I love that you connected all the senses so effortlessly. I agree, the glazed is the best. I would’ve had to stop there, can’t stand devil’s food cake. LOL. Thank you for sharing this fun time in your past.
I still remember mulberries in May;
we’d chase each other ’round the tree
with berries in our fists, ready to throw.
Not one berry would make it to our plates
or cups, but we enjoyed our time without
a care. Our purple hands and faces marked
the start of summer as we raced to the
old pond we knew so well and fished ’til dusk.
We’d laugh as fireflies danced around our heads
and chased each other ’round the constant tree.
And now, I stand beneath the tree and think
of May with family at Doby Springs.
Grace,
The first line is just — so lovely: “I still remember mulberries in May;” — it is the alliteration for sure, but the semicolon in the end is so much more welcoming and warm than a colon, signaling that this memory lives on, is renewed in where you still stand beneath the tree.
Sarah
Grace, what a beautiful poem. I love how it flows to the very end that shares exactly the place of this special memory. Oh my, I do remember eating mulberries and how they dyed one’s hands and feet purple because of course we never wore shoes. I really enjoyed the line: “We’d laugh as fireflies danced around our heads”….fireflies and mulberries,… fishing…ah…so awesome and so sweet!
Grace,
This is a lovely poem evocative of Robert Frost and Seamus Heaney’s poems about various berries. I love the way you take a good memory and evoke a memory of play. It makes me think of picking blackberries w/ my father so long ago. The alliteration in the first line pulls me into your poem.
—Glenda
Grace, what wonderful and full-of-life memories you’ve shared here. Beautiful.
I had to stop when I read your poem, and I pondered our own mulberry tree when my daughter was 3 or 4–her bare feet, hands and mouth were purple whenever she was outside. (The similarities ended there in our suburban house.)
Your poem reminds me of a neighbor’s giant mulberry tree when I was a child. Beautiful summer memory, Grace.
I honestly, don’t know if I’ve ever tasted a mulberry. They sound like so much fun. For us growing up it was a guava bush or two, but we at them. Sweet as figs. Break them open suck them out. Your mulberries are part of a greater setting.
What a gloriously fun memory and poem!!!
Mulberries in May! Love it!
Grace, I love this memory of chasing “each other ‘round the mulberry tree.” It reminds me of the childhood song. I also noticed your masterful enjambment. The period just before “our purple hands and faces marked” enhanced the imagery for me. How sweet!
Laura, thank you so much for the lovely prompt. I love that Sandra Cisneros poem, and your follow up about mushy peas. It was a great exercise. I too did the cross out version for mine poem. I ended up with a long list of food memories while I decided, and I chose one simple memory.
Lemon Mint
By Denise Krebs
One dinar apiece
For a lemon-mint
We drove
Straight from AMH
Down Sheikh Isa
Turned right before the Adliya Road
Just a short distance
Down the wrong way street
Parked in the alley
That smelled like fresh bread
Appu and Lali ordered
Because they had the experience
Turkish bread, hummus, grills and more
But it was the lemon-mint that took our breath away
It looked like a bamboo forest in a frosty glass
It sounded like the fresh breeze at the sea
It felt like a handful of love and satisfaction
It smelled like a cleansing summer rain in Kerala
It tasted like the twin goddesses, Sweet and Sour
Sit down, enjoy
Good drink
Good food
Good talk
Drink till there was nothing left
Slurping up the last bits of ice and sweetness
And wiping the inside of the glass
To get the foamy mint
Onto our fingers to lick it off
We ate and drank
And you told us what it was like
To live and eat in Bahrain
You, smiling and encouraging
Us, pondering our futures
Denise, I wanted to be there with you! My favorite lines: But it was the lemon-mint that took our breath away
It looked like a bamboo forest in a frosty glass
It sounded like the fresh breeze at the sea
It felt like a handful of love and satisfaction
It smelled like a cleansing summer rain in Kerala
It tasted like the twin goddesses, Sweet and Sour
This brought me great joy and took me to a land far away.
Thanks for this!
Denise, thank you for writing this! I really enjoyed the vivid details and the building to the “companionship” of it all: “Good drink / Good food / Good talk.” And I especially like the lines “We ate and drank / And you told us what it was like / To live and eat in Bahrain.” There’s a lot in this moment!
Denise,
I love your place-based writing especially because I get to travel with you, be alongside you, discover a way of being in the world beyond my own. “The foamy mint” is perfect.
Sarah
Denise,
A local restaurant used to keep a mint dispenser on the counter by the register. Each mint offered a surprise in its color. When the restaurant abandoned the dispenser after 30+ years, I realized how that mint dispenser (and my favorite drink, a big orange) are the only reasons, other than the deck, for dining there. It’s a pricey place, but it’s iconic. How many food icons have we lost? This is my take-away from your gorgeous poem. Favorite lines:
—Glenda
Denise, this is wonderful! I love the moments where you kept the structure of “Good Hotdogs,” but also the spots where you broke away. The similes you used are so vivid. “It looked like a bamboo forest in a frosty glass” — I can picture that.
Laura, thank you for the food prompt today to bring back tasty memories. Your green peas take me straight back to England, where I also found the unlikeliest foods and combinations a cultural awakening of senses. Thank you for investing in us as writers today. When I read your prompt, it reminded me of my daughter’s letter of senses she wrote about my mother in 2015. I share these today, with my own reminder statement at the end.
Strawberry Pigs
every sense
that Mimi provided
was wonderful-
the sight of her
was nothing less
than beautiful
hearing her voice
as she called me
“Nonnie bird”
or “doodle bug”
always brought a smile
to my face
the way her perfume smelled
on a Sunday morning
her warming back scratches
always felt better
than anyone else’s
and her cooking
always tasted marvelous
there was never
a task with Mimi
that I considered a hassle –
even when she would
whip out the garden gloves and shovels
it is actually one of my favorite things that we would do together
she would let me
use the riding lawnmower
as she tended her flowers
at the end of working
we would pick
figs and blueberries
and then
eat them for lunch
although that may not be exciting
to kids nowadays
it meant the world to me
and always will continue to
having Miriam
as my grandmother
was truly a blessing
and knowing
how many people
love and care about her makes me feel
extra special
I will miss her very much until I meet her
up at the gates of heaven
love you, Mimi
-Ansley Meyer
This letter, written by my youngest child for my mother’s funeral in 2015, reminds me of the years of Mason jars in the kitchen, canning “strawberry pigs” (strawberries and figs) and in 2008 finding a $3 sickly little clearance fig on the scratch and dent shelf at Home Depot, bringing it home, and continuing the tradition. “Mimi” is now a majestic fig, reaching skyward to the heavens…..
Ss many lovely details I feel like I know Mimi. I love family lore and that you called canned strawberries and figs “strawberry pigs.” The things that make Mimi unique make this a universal love poem for her. I’m sorry for your loss. I hope you have given new life to the “sickly” little fig on clearance. Another poem in the making?
That’s a beautiful memory and tribute. It’s these moments of smell and taste and touch that truly matter the most in life. Mimi lives forever in these lines, these memories, and in heaven till you meet again! ?
Kim,
Reading this poem is like being held in a long hug. It’s so evocative of cooking w/ love. I’m drawn to these lines:
My grandma called me “Twitter” until I was a teen. Love this poem and your anecdote.
—Glenda
Ah, tell Ansley how much we enjoyed her poem today. What a beauty!
I love that you have a fig tree named Mimi.
Thank you, Kim!
Thank you for sharing Ansley’s poem and your own story of your fig tree, Kim. I responded to the same lines as Glenda — those specific nicknames communicate how much love these two had for each other.
Good Morning Open Write Writers! I want to say a huge thanks to Barb and Denise for their wonderful prompts this week. I enjoyed each and have dabbled lots in my notebook. I had a recent death in our family that made me understand I had to draw my boundaries close — especially as virtual school began (wowee wow wow has that been busy). So, I have not shared any poems or done any reading–only lurking. But, I am most grateful for this community.
Laura, this is a fabulous prompt and mentor workshop, really. Thank you for the delight you bring to the writing community. I’m off to write about a food memory!
Sorry to hear about your loss, Linda. I appreciate you sharing that and your need to stay tucked in for now. Thoughts and prayers to you.
Linda, my condolences to you. Peace and comfort during this difficult chapter.
Linda, as a recent “addition” to this “space,” I am also grateful for this welcoming community. I’m sorry for your loss. Take the time you need to take care of yourself and your family.
Sending peace, light, love, and condolences to you, Linda. Take care of yourself and know you’re missed.
—Glenda
Linda, I am so sorry to hear about your loss. The pandemic has added extra burdens on our already-complicated experience of grief. Thinking of you with love.
Linda, my thoughts are with you as you grieve your loss. Not reading or writing but lurking is a perfectly fine way to allow your creative energy to rest while your world gets back on its axis. We’ll see you back soon.
Sending love your way and prayers for comfort. ?