Our Host: Jordan Stamper
Jordan lives in Suffolk, VA where she teaches at Nansemond-Suffolk Academy, an independent, collegiate preparatory school. She has dabbled teaching all grades 9-12, but now loves her corner of the universe in which she gets to nerd out with AP Language & Composition and creative writing with young writers from all walks of life. When not teaching, she spends time with her husband and two young daughters while cultivating her own love of the written word.
Inspiration
I don’t know about you, but I love books that describe food! Whether they are historical dishes detailed in a nonfiction narrative to the many types of potatoes the Hobbits enjoyed in Lord of the Rings, food is a language we can all speak and enjoy, and we all have our favorites!
But oftentimes, what makes a meal our favorite has not so much to do with the food, but more where we were and who we were with that makes that meal the best we’ve ever had.
Process
Think about the best food or meal who have ever had. Brainstorm:
- Who were you with? What is your connection? Why are they important?
- Where were you?
- Use sensory language to describe this setting in detail.
- What did you eat?
- Use sensory language to describe the meal.
- What is your connection to this meal and this person/place/event?
If you would like more inspiration, here are two wonderful poems that use the meal as a portal to something larger than just what’s on the plate.
Osso Bucco by Billy Collins
Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney
Jordan’s Poem
Cookies at Christmas
Warm vanilla and toasted sugar
Waft through the galley kitchen.
Each substance is spilled into metal bowls,
Creamed by whirring mixers drowning out
Our background noise Christmas movies.
Ma rolls chilled dough like a magician,
A flawless juggler shaping them into
Something like the snowballs we wished to have,
Precisely spaced on sheets of parchment paper.
Me and my sister giggle, fighting the temptation
To sneak the raw sugar into our mouths, to lick at the beaters.
But we remembered we were the masters of sprinkles,
Covering some in green and red confection, or placing
A sheen of cinnamon sugar over others. Once placed
In the oven’s glow, we watched for tops to brown
And crack, reminding us of ice we would not have.
Back then, Ma’s magic in flour, butter, and sugar
Seemed a simple magic, a parlor trick to fill bellies and tins.
Now, each of us are at the helm of our separate kitchens,
Little eyes watching us become their own magician at Christmas.
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may choose to 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. 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. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers.
Baking Brownies
Baking with mom
Flour is flying
Shes not upset
She knows that I’m trying
I eat all the batter
But it doesn’t matter
There will still be some brownies on platters
Some spit may be in it
But that’s okay
The heat will kick the germs out
They’ll all melt away
I promise it’s sanitary
Mom said it was okay
Ah, Jordan, I love your poem of the passing of the magic to the next generation of cookie bakers. Thank you for hosting today. The hour is late. I should come back to this draft as I work through your interesting questions, and see how I can revise and improve it. But for now, here is what I have…
It’s your birthday–
and Mexican food, it is,
no one is surprised.
It’s your usual request,
made by my sister.
Bon appetit: Today we enjoy
chicken en mole, chile verde,
beans, rice and the biggest
bowls of chips and salsa
you’ve ever seen.
She made enough to feed
a hundred, even though we
were 24. All of us were there
to honor the new 70-year-old
and eat big and delicious
of this special day
of the love of my life.
Denise,
I’m starting to think all you do is hop from one party to the next. That meal sounds scrumptious. Happy birthday to Keith. Marking a special occasion with a poem is a lovely gift.
Hello!! Thank you Jordan for hosting today! Here below is my very rough poem, and it will most likely stay that way lol.
Mansaf Azuma
Family gatherings, how I miss them
take me 10 years back
30 minute drive
20 person gathering
10 years old
everyone arrives at a different time
each talking one another’s ear’s off even though we were all here just last week
all stovetops are on
lamb soaked in soup is still brewing
first comes the large pan
then flat bread, yellow rice, and the steaming lamb
put some parsley and roasted slices of almonds for a touch of flavor
pour the soup in bowls across the table
the parents serve their children
each asking for a different portion of soup to be poured over their serving
each serving way over the needed amount to reach fullness
the bread and rice soaks up the soup
with the savory off the bone lamb on top
my sister and I argue for the piece that looks like a rib
a luxury at its finest
now stuffed we struggle to
return our plates
remove the dishes off the tabletop
clean off the table of spilled rice and soup spots
and wipe down the table with the heirloom of a sponge
we’re all sat now
still talking each others ears off
just a little quieter this time
sitting in each others’ presence
how long will this last?
Oh, Aseel! This sounds divine. My mouth is watering at the sound of all this delicious food. The family time is precious, too.
Aseel, what a lovely family gathering (and weekly–how special) No wonder you miss them! The meal sounds delicious. I liked the part about you and your sister arguing over who will get the special piece of meat.
Spud-os
deep-fried
batter-dipped
potato slices
hot against my tongue
16
always hungry
for all of it
hot tongues
ab slices
skinny-dipped
and deep-fried in summer
Allison,
this is so fun and really captures the essence of summertime. I can smell the deep fried potato slices! I love the rhythms of this, too!
Wow! Your poem is so playful and summery. You’ve capture an amazing tone here.
Allison – great crafting! The change-up with “tongues” is so fun. I love that sense of sizzle … both me and the potatoes. From the title to the end, you do sooo much with so few words. You are so good at this! Hugs, Susie
Allison, I love this. As others have said, it is full of great summer images. I love the parallel of the first and last stanza, only backwards.
Allison, I love the “saltiness” of your poem and your second stanza is completely relatable. I also loved, loved, loved your line the “skinny-dipped/and deep-fried in summer” is fantastic. Fantastically fun poem!
This is super rough, but I’m exhausted right now. I will fine tune this later.
Junket
By Mo Daley 4/19/25
Mom and I had to walk three blocks to Jewel to get groceries
for the family, then I had to walk the cart back after we unloaded.
But accompanying her allowed me a privilege the older ones
never got. I got to beg, and I was good at it.
I lived for Junket.
When I was especially well behaved, Mom would make it
for me as a lunch or dinnertime treat. I was in heaven.
Junket was a pink, custard-like, pudding-like sweet treat
that was made from a packet, much like a modern day
pudding or Jello. Its history is quite fancy- it was made of
cream, rosewater, sugar, and spices for medieval nobility.
In my house it was just a simple, prepackaged cheap treat
for a kid with a sweet tooth. I’ve asked my siblings about it.
None of them remember ever eating it.
Maybe because it was a special treat, just for me.
Mo — I’ve never heard of “Junket” but it sounds yummy! I loved the way your story unfolds and especially the ending —
“None of them remember ever eating it.
Maybe because it was a special treat, just for me” — what a sweet memory.
Mo, the vivid storytelling of your poem reminds me of years I was in junior high, the grocery shopper for our family, grudging home the cart of groceries and swirling it back to the A&P! And also of treating my own children when as a Mom they got treats from money saved from their finding the coupon items. Then coupons came in newspapers. If they brought back the right item, that savings went towards lunch! Thanks for reviving the double memories.
Mo, I haven’t heard of Junket, but can understand why “a kid with a sweet tooth” would. This beautiful memory resonates with me because I,too, had my special time and treats from mom. Thank you for this heartwarming poem.
Mo–isn’t it amazing that kids in the same family often have such different memories of a shared life? I think you must have held a special place to get the Junket!
Mo,
You paint a nostalgic picture of that one special thing that every kid has! I’ve never heard of a junket but it sounds delicious!
Mo, I’m glad I found your Junket memory tonight. As one of five (and as a mother of six) I am acutely sensitive to the small individual memories children in a large family hold tight. It is this theme–longing for the mother’s attention (“allowed me the privilege” “when I was especially well behaved”) that hit my heart.
Thank you.
Mo, I do like to think that this “was a special treat, just for me” Aren’t busy moms amazing? They can help each of their children feel special with little acts of love like this. The Junket sounds yummy.
Thanks Jordan! Your invitation took me waaaay back in time to a distant memory–even had to go dig up an old photo.
Sunday Swearing Lessons
In his tiny trailer
Sunday mornings were for
bubbly ginger ale
biscuit making and
swearing lessons.
He’d mix the dough
roll it out
handing us each a drinking glass
the same glasses that would hold
sweet and bubbly ginger ale
doubled
as biscuit cutters.
We’d push down and twist
the pan filled with biscuits
perfectly sized
for girl-child bites.
While we waited
he’d egg us on
urging us to repeat
his favorite
(perhaps G-rated)
profanity.
Goddammit he’d announce
as older sister, I remained silent
little sister tested the swearing waters
our parents, an indulgent audience.
Our sweet reward:
flaky hot biscuits
slathered in butter and honey
with a side of ginger ale
and timeless Sunday memories
with Uncle Bob.
Kim Douillard
4/19/25
https://thinkingthroughmylens.com/2025/04/19/sunday-swearing-lessons-npm25-day-19/
Kim,
You hooked me with the titled: “Sunday Swearing Lessons” and had me chuckling at your uncle Bob’s swear word. Loved the details –“sweet and bubbly ginger ale/doubled/
as biscuit cutters” and “flaky hot biscuits/slathered in butter and honey”
Cool story…learning to swear on Sundays. Which ginger ale brand? We drank Vernon’s which for decades was only sold in Michigan! I did know there were other brands till I married and moved to another state!
G-rated cussing! What a story!
Oh my (swear) word! This is such a beautiful memory poem.
I love the layering of themes– longing for connection and sibling competition.
I need to say Goddammit more often.
Thank you for reminding me.
<3,
Allison
Love the surprising juxtapositions in your poem, Kim. Vividly drawn!
This is very sweet. I can feel your fondness for this memory and for your uncle through this poem. That’s very special you expressed it
Jordan — Thank you for the fun prompt! You had me craving cookies at “Warm vanilla and toasted sugar.”
My Favorite Smells
Sweet basil and oregano dancing together
Earthy aroma that floats like a feather
Tomato sauce bubbling on the hot stove
These are a few of my favorite smells
Ricotta cheese and parsley,
Layered tight between noodles
Can’t get enough of this cheesy delight
Dinner like this always feels just right
These are few of my favorite smells
Tammi, ditto, ditto, ditto! Delicious imagery!
These are comforting smells of homemade deliciousness, Tammi! You describe them so enticingly.
Ooooh! My mouth is watering… “earthy aroma that floats like a feather” — such an amazing description for basil and oregano.
Tammi, your poem sings off the page, and I love the aromas: basil, oregano, tomato. Oh, yes, I would love a slice of this!
I LOVE your personification of the basil and oregano. It’s so fun!!!!!
Marble sliding up walls
Crawling up the stairs
A beautiful, classy hotel
A woman in white, a man in a tux
They had just shared their vows
Clinks of champagne, pump of a keg
Of all the exiirs and tasty treats
There was one that stood above the rest
Spinach and artichoke dip, warm pita
A delicious mix of flavors, so divine
A takeout box full of the treat
As they drunkenly stumbled
but, oh no! The box goes splat
Laughter erupts, a shake of the head
Together, two fools clean up a mess
A woman in white, a man in a tux
Ashley — I love the way this story unfolds with the unexpected disaster at the end. That spinach and artichoke dip with warm pita sounds so good too!
What a great buildup to a big mess. I love the drunken stumble.
Oh, Ashley, I love the way you capture this scene with your precise details. I appreciate the contrast between the formal classy hotel and the “two fools” cleaning up a mess in their luxurious clothes.
I love that you never explicitly say that your poem is taking place at a wedding. Instead, you use imagery. It leaves more to be discovered and allows for a more interactive reader.
Jordan, thank you for your prompt. Your poem is magical full of sweet memories making cookies at Christmas. Simply gorgeous!
Cheers
It wasn’t the meal that mattered
It was the people
Gathered to break bread
Raising a toast
Savoring the love shared
Barb Edler
19 April 2025
I love how the concise nature of your poem reflects a good toast! Cheers!
Barb — I love how your poem captures what truly matters — sharing a meal with those we love.
Barb, doesn’t this say it all? Your poem replicates the clinking of glasses in a brief shared moment with its concise nature. Thank you for sharing this with us today!
Barb, I am totally with you on this – the most important about the food is people gathering to break bread and raise a toast. It’s all about love. Beautifully said! Thank you.
Cheers, indeed, Barb — The people…. you are part of my people… I’m so glad. Love, Susie
Barb,
Perfect way to honor the prompt and the people we break bread with. Love it
Amen, Barb. Amen!
STRAWBERRY SEASON
The neighboring farm had a strawberry field
down the road;
I cut between the wheat and new milo
on a tractor-worn path
past ol’ Snowball’s pig pen
and stood in the late May sunshine,
ready to pick,
ready to gobble
two berries
for the shaved-wood quart boxes
and one big, fat, scarlet berry squirreled
into my cheeks,
mouthful after mouthful,
flat after flat,
juice dripping down my chin on my shirt.
Maybe 100 yards by 50 yards,
row after row of ripe lush gems
needed picking,
needed our nimble little fingers
to pluck the berries as fast as we could.
Strawberries on the farm,
ruby red and sweet
top to bottom,
inside and out,
no coarse white cores
from rethinking the DNA
to make bigger, heavier,
but not better berries.
They didn’t even need sugar.
Destined for our table
for the next several days,
the berries oozed red;
trimmed and sent to the deep-freeze
to treat us in the months ahead
on waffles,
in bowls with fresh cream,
cooked up and divvied into mason jars
of preserves for the shelves in the cellar
but nothing more glorious than
Mama’s strawberry shortcake with cream
from ol’ Silver’s daily milking,
skimmed off the top,
lathered up into clouds
atop berry-buried
biscuit bottoms,
heaped
into bowls
or lattice topped strawberry-rhubarb pie
with ice cream.
tart and sweet,
the perfect blend of goo.
Strawberry season,
a rush
of spring loping
into summer.
by Susie Morice, April 19, 2025©
The imagery in your poem brought me to this place. It is always so lovely when a poem can transport me into a place I have zero background knowledge of!
Susie — Loved the image of you stuffing strawberries into your mouth. My mother made strawberry preserves, too. Really good stuff! Now I’m craving some fresh picked strawberries!
Oh, Susie, what a scrumptious strawberry saga! I am seeing that “one big, fat, scarlet berry squirreled / into (your) cheeks.” We, too, go to pick strawberries to freeze and can for winter; your poem felt so close to home. You remember, I live in the strawberry capital of the world, don’t you? I am so grateful for this poem
Such vivid and delicious details here, Susie! And I love the truth in “no coarse white cores / from rethinking the DNA / to make bigger, heavier, / but not better berries.” And I smiled wide at “ol’ Snowball’s pig pen”!
Susie,
I giggled at Squealer, the pig. Lots of layers to that Animal Farm name these days. Your strawberry picking took me back to stealing strawberries from a field when I was a tiny tot. I was hungry. Your poem is filled with nostalgia and lusciousness. I always love Mama popping up in your poems, even though I sure did not have a mama like yours. Growing up I never took fruit for granted. I love old fashioned strawberry shortcake and strawberry-rhubarb pie.
Susie, I love, love berry season here in Upstate NY. This poem made me yearn for it. Beautifully crafted!
Ahhh, Susie. I love your poem. It is full of love and sweetness. I absolutely love strawberry-rhubarb combos and, of course, ice cream. Loved your line “the perfect blend of goo”. Man, do I wish I was here with you!
Jordan, your poem was so rich and vivid and really evoked memories of my own Christmases and times baking with mom — and my own girls. Thanks for this! I went with a sestina for today:
Maine
We walked the pier,
in Maine, water crashing waves,
noses sniffing out
taste sensations, feasts
imminent for hungry bellies
as we mosied together.
Our hands linked together,
yet I detached to peer
in shop windows, belly
pressed to plate glass, waves
of curls reflected back at me, a feast,
a riot of vanity crying out.
From behind us, out
of a small shack, together
mingled scents of the sea and land – feasts
both marine and earthy: peer-
less fried scents and waves
of blueberry goodness tempted our bellies:
We drew near, bellying
up to the line. Stretched out
to infinity, folks waved
friends over to stand together,
budging the line, as Mainers peered
beadily at them who intruded on their feast.
We joined in. Mouths watering at the potential feast:
clams with whole, meaty bellies.
The salty air of the pier
Only whetted appetites, out-
er selves restrained, but barely holding it together
as hunger ebbed and flowed in waves.
My hair blew in salty waves,
as we sat on a bench, feasting
on sea fare, together:
blueberry hand pies filled hungry bellies
Which soon jutted out
necessitating a long walk on the pier.
A meal without a peer
A memory which cries out
A sacred time together.
Wendy, your sestina is full of the flavor of Maine! The imagery and repetition with “bellies” and “bellying” really reinforces this appetite that carries us through this meal. Thank you for sharing this beautiful memory!
Wendy, I love the way this poem wraps around the sensory details of this special moment in Maine. The clams, blueberries and sea fare all sound beyond amazing. Love your last stanza! Gorgeous poem.
Wendy —
My kids and I were in Maine two summers ago and your sensory details bring Maine to life beautifully.
My favorite stanza:
“My hair blew in salty waves,
as we sat on a bench, feasting
on sea fare, together:
blueberry hand pies filled hungry bellies
Which soon jutted out
necessitating a long walk on the pier.”
Those Blueberries!
Wendy, you set up such a vivid setting in this poem. Every detail brings Maine live and anticipation of the feast grows with each line. This “blueberry hand pies filled hungry bellies” makes me want to go to the kitchen and make some pies.
Detroit-style in Frederick, Maryland
it was just last week
after a mountain climb
so steep
my son knew a place nearby
said they made the best
pizza pie
funky little place in its decor
one trinket after another from
Star Wars
hungry, tired, sweaty, too
we slipped in to read
the menu
greeted by this delicious smell
of garlic, cheese, and
peppers (bell)
quick glances at other’s tables
proved my son told
no fable
these pizzas were thick, crusty,
and piled high with fresh,
delecta-gushy
so we settled in, succumbed
and devoured with a quiet
hum
best pizza in quite a while!
Maureen, this made me hungry! Loved the imagery and the phrase “delecta-gushy,” lol.
Maureen,
These off the beaten path places often are the best. Excellent invented word, “delecta-gushy.”
Maureen, I am always envious of poets that can carry a rhyme scheme so naturally, and I love the rhythm you have captured here. The word “delecta-gushy” says all it needs to about this delectable pizza experience! Thank you for sharing this today!
Maureen — Dang, I was dreaming of pizza this afternoon and wish I had a piece of this pizza. The smells alone are arresting. Mmmmm. Instead, I sauted a piece of fish…YUK by comparison. Shudda ordered up a pizza! LOL! I enjoyed your bits of rhyme as well. Susie
Love this poem, Maureen. Pizza and family after a mountain climb definitely sounds divine!
Maureen — That pizza sounds amazing and what a cool and ecletic atmosphere. Love the rhythm and rhyme of your poem!
“devoured with a quiet hum” is such an apt phrase, but I don’t think I’ve read it ever, Thanks for sharing.
Maureen, every poem I read today makes my mouth water, and yours is no exception. This description vigorously tickles my taste buds “these pizzas … thick, crusty, / and piled high with fresh, / delecta-gushy.” Yummy!
LOL! Loved your poem, I’m currently in Michigan now for school and I’m not much of a pizza eater but the pizzas here do hit the spot, I totally relate to your poem. lol-ing because I see myself talk the same way about pizza after practice.
Malbec
I take a grateful sip, and you
ask me what I think,
and I know my lines.
I let the question, my thoughts,
and the wine linger.
I imagine the sultry sunny days
of the Mendoza Valley
sip again, thinking of warm rain,
of hot Argentinian suns
and fat red grapes weighing the vines-
sip and pretend to taste other fruits
deep purple plums, jammy blackberries
smooth blood dark cherries
You are waiting,
I swirl and sip the dregs
whisper, “mmmmm”
look deep into your eyes
pour another glass, and say
“Thank you.”
Kasey,
I love attending wine tastings and enjoying a glass of wine with a good meal when I travel and on my patio by the fire, but I’m not an expert, which is why I feel your poem deeply, especially the line
“pretend to taste other fruits”
Yep. I’m a wine poser.
I love the ‘performance art’ you describe – that “and I know my lines.” You’ve left me imagining you are with a special friend who is a wine buff, and you enjoy their company so much, you go along for the ride. Love that “look deep into your eyes” – best wine is shared!
Kasey, I loved this detail:
“sip and pretend to taste other fruits
deep purple plums, jammy blackberries
smooth blood dark cherries”
And the stanza that followed — they characterized your sweetly-painted relationship without you having to do a lot of heavy lifting to do so. Beautiful piece!
This is so real—knowing your lines, pretending to taste…I am in your club! I like wine, but have no knowledge! Great poem. thank YOU!
Kasey — Gosh, I love a good malbec but haven’t had one in ages. You made me wish for one! I laughed at the fruity tastes that are the thang in wine tasting. I just think it either tastes great or it doesn’t. HA! I love the simple, “Thank you.” So, thank you. Susie
The amount of hot sauce as a measure for your mental health
the smell of smoky seranos, as just a touch
or to overpower
to feel something
to burn you taste buds
the vinegar
just to jostle awake
the bad pork tenderloin they served in the outpatient facility
but you’ll be vegan now, just a roll and some green beans
they tasted like nothing
the suicide watch
with daily pills and bad pudding
the paper pajamas and styrofoam coffee
nothing was appetizing
but anything tasted better than the windex you swallowed and the pills you took
the bitterness of death churning in your stomach
it is not meant to be this way
after a long week of thawing out
and chasing clarity
learning to love life again
at least to live life still, no laughter, level and leaving behind
the dark fog enveloping your unmedicated mind
soup for the soul, salty tears crawling down her cheek as your faces touched again
as you embraced a new possibility
as you embraced the many roads yet to travel
breathing in a repreave
a hard fought battle
this water never tasted so good
your body knows what the first step of recovery should taste like
Wow! I am in awe. This poem is heartbreaking, but I am so glad it has a hopeful ending. Thank you for this vulnerable moment.
This is so insightful about mental illness and recovery…that beginning about using so much hot sauce, “or to overpower/to feel something” captures so poignantly the flatness, numbness of one’s mind in such a crisis. And the juxtaposition at the end with “this water never tasted so good” – wow! Here’s to recovery.
Luke, your poem awakens taste buds of dinner with hot spicy, but all awakens the compassionate for the person this poem describes. Thanks for sharing both, especially the closing lines that suggests the person has chosen to live on … despite the hot spicy days that may come. Amazing how a clever poet can create such warmth about two such different experiences.
Luke, this was simply beautiful. Your powerful imagery had me feeling lots of emotions through this poem, and my breath caught more than once. I absolutely loved the last two lines, which packed such a punch.
Luke, your poem brings us through a journey of different tastes that leaves us with this moment at the end with “this water never tasted so good” as a reminder to not take these simple moments and tastes for granted. The first stanza captures the tastes and experiences of hot sauce so accurately with the “smoky seranos” and “the vinegar just to jostle awake the bad pork tenderloin . . .” Such a beautiful and heartbreaking poem, but thank you for sharing this with us today!
Loaves and Fishes
We chalked it up to her living alone now,
the way she bought only one box of pasta
to feed the fifteen of us there for a feast
on Christmas Eve. We took turns
turning out her pantry, looking for spare
linguini, fettuccine, spaghetti, heck
even elbows to add to the too-small pot of
boiling water before it was too late.
The snug condo’s air was sweet with garlic
from sauteing shrimp (too few!) and
baking baguette (one loaf for all!).
We set the tight table and fretted,
encouraged our husbands to fill up
on appetizers, kept restocking the chips
and crackers and cheese we’d brought
in anticipation of this lack. And always
there was more than enough. Always
we sat licking our lips long after
the meal was over (our mom’s scampi
better than any restaurant’s), sat laughing
together about how she’d always managed
to feed us from nothing, and still
we couldn’t believe it.
Being fed ‘from nothing,’ is what the tales sometimes weave. I am smelling the garlic being sautéed. And it sounds like you came prepared.
I was with you through this story that sounds all too familiar of turning lack into a family of grateful eating and laughing.
Kate, I like how your poem reveals another kind of a miracle worker in the kitchen who “always managed /to feed us from nothing.” This is all so familiar for me growing up in a family of ten with parents earning minimal wages. Your mom’s shrimp scampi sounds so good right now! Thank you for sharing.
“And always
there was more than enough. ” – love this so much! What a beautiful story.
Kate, what a beautiful memory. Your parenthetical asides added such great voice and perspective to this. This was so tender, loved it!
This is a wonderful story of family, love, and miracles. What a glorious picture you paint!
wonderful sentiment and scene set. Thank you Kate.
Jordan, what a delicious prompt for today! Thank you for hosting, for the mentor poems and your Christmas cookies. I love the line: “Ma rolls chilled dough like a magician.” My mom was this kind of magician too.
Like everyone, I have so many stories about food. Yesterday was a Good Friday crawfish boil at our place for the family and friends, but I had already written about this custom last year. Today, I wanted to tell you about the traditional Ukrainian Easter bread – paska. We bake it on Holy Wednesday before Easter Sunday. The house has to be especially clean (as pure as our thoughts should) and festive. I love when my kids and grandkids visit. Last year, I baked Easter bread in a shape of craffins (see the attached picture).
Soft Promise of Tomorrow
We come from many places, many ways—
Christians, Muslims, Judaists, Catholics,
Orthodox, Baptists, Adventists—
all gathering to honor every path with love.
On Holy Wednesday, flour dusts the air,
and silence travels soft across our home.
Hands knead and fold the centuries of blessings,
while joy fills every corner of our hearts.
We gather close—small fingers and my seasoned palms—
the house brims with stories, songs, and kindness.
Then leave the dough rest in sacred stillness,
to let the loaves rise like prayers toward heaven.
And when the oven door swings open,
we hold our breath to see
the miracle emerging from hearth—
a paska, soft promise stitched into tomorrow.
My favorite line is “Hands knead and fold the centuries of blessings.” Bringing all traditions together into a miraculous loaf of bread. Yum!
Leilya, this is just beautiful. Truly. I find so much solace in the lines “then leave the dough rest in sacred stillness/to let the loaves rise like prayers toward heaven.” I can imagine that last stanza – the breath holding for the miracle.
This is lovely, Leilya! These lines are beautiful: “Hands knead and fold the centuries of blessings, / while joy fills every corner of our hearts” and “Then leave the dough rest in sacred stillness, / to let the loaves rise like prayers toward heaven.” And thank you for the pictures; it looks delicious!
What a wonderful tradition you describe! The love and inclusivity – “all gathering to honor every path with love.” And it looks so breathtakingly delicious!
Leilya, I just loved this! (And the picture to accompany looked amazing!). I felt that you took such care with every word of this. I especially loved the juxtaposition in this line:
“We gather close—small fingers and my seasoned palms—”
Happy Easter, and thanks for this mouth-wateringly delicious and beautifully written poem!
Leilya — OOOO ooo yummy…that looks delicious and the cultural acts that go with making a type of bread is so universal, so lovely. Your phrasings are beautiful…especially the end…”Soft promise stitched into tomorrow.” Susie
Leilya,
That bread looks so good. Thank you for sharing another Ukraine tradition and for the added information about the bread. Every family should be so rich in food stories. The world would be a kinder, better place if the powerful had these kinds of riches instead of only the kind money buys. Your Ukrain poems embody these words you share about the bread:
“we hold our breath to see
the miracle emerging”
They weren’t the greatest cookies
ever made, I’d wager, but they were
the ones we made this past Christmas:
Zombie Gingerbread Men with parts
missing and frosted exposed bones,
and they were good.
__________________________________________
Thank you, Jordan, for your mentor poem and prompt today! I loved the lines “we were the masters of sprinkles” and the final image of “Little eyes watching us become their own magician at Christmas.”
Scott, “Zombie Gingerbread Men with parts / missing and frosted exposed bones” sounds quite appropriate for Christmas, especially when they are good.
Your cookies need to meet my nativity set. Now I have another holiday goal. Chomp Chomp.
Zombie Gingerbread Men needs to become a thing at Christmas. Those missing parts (what a great way to use the broken cookies) and exposed bones! I can imagine the holiday special, scored by Patrick Doyle, directed by Tim Burton, voiceovers by Christopher Lee and Corey Burton.
Scott, hopefully this becomes a tradition! I love the imagery of “frosted exposed bones” that make these sweet zombies just a tad more terrifying. Thank you for sharing this with us today!
Ha! So short, but so perfectly imagistic.
Scott—zombie gingerbread men! My kind of Christmas cookies!
Scott — LOLOL…Zombie cookies…that’s worth writing a poem about for sure. Love the “parts/missing….bones.” LOL! Just the sort of cookies I expect from you. Cool! Susie
thank you! I’ve enjoyed the sweetness of this poem. I’ve always favored out of the ordinary things, my favorite thing to see and do, thank you for sharing!
Hi Jordan,
We were masters!! Who knew.
I want to be there with you and your family! These lines are precious because they reminded me of how my grandmother only gave me and my sister the easy task of sprinkles.
I wrote haiku poems for some of my family’s food traditions.
Delicious Days
Toffee Joy cookies
My holiday specialty
Buttery sweet love
Christmas Morning bread
Cinnamon and butter gift
There’s none leftover
Rice Dressing side dish
Passed down from our grandmother
My daughter devours
My Sister’s gumbo
Shrimp, crab, sausage and spices
New Year’s tradition
Woo’s barbequed meals
Summer fun in the backyard
Cocktails and laughter
© Stacey L. Joy, 4/19/25
Oh, Stacey, so much love in your poem! I like the title “delicious days,” and it also hints on a variety of family food traditions. Your signature cookies have your JOYful name–love it! “Rice Dressing side dish Passed down from our grandmother” is a treasure to keep. My husband also keeps this traditional dish going. If we join our families for holidays – none will be hungry Lol. Thank your or your delicious haikus!
We would have a blast!
Bring on your sister’s gumbo. Now I’m really hungry. Just the mention of that word…and “Butterly sweet love”? Come on, now.
Yessss!
Stacey, loved this riot of delicious memories!
Stacey — This whole poem is party! I love the dishes….that gumbo…mmmm-mmm. I LOVE gumbo. And “Christmas morning bread” … I can just smell that cinnamon. Lovely, Susie
Banana Pudding with Granny
I don’t really like
the sticky, sweet desserts so
many of my friends
love but I adore
the making of them, or to
be honest, learning
how to. Those times in
the kitchen with Granny, by
her side, watching her
I learned biscuits and
cobbler, peach, huckleberry,
apple. Love wrapped in
dough, cinnamon, and
sugar. I was ten when I
learned the sacred
banana pudding
Granny took to the Sunday
go-to-meeting lunch
or the dinner-on-
the-grounds celebrations that
happened once a month
at ten I knew this
was special. We gathered the
cracked blue mixing bowl
the cutting board, the
wooden spoon, the whisk, Nilla
wafers, bananas,
heavy cream, sugar,
vanilla, white chocolate chips,
vanilla pudding mix,
sweetened, condensed milk,
ingredients for a spell, one
that made people sigh
and hum and dip their
spoons again and again and
go back for seconds
I mastered heavy
cream first, learning to whip it
to stiff peaks ready
for layers. Slicing
the bananas came next and then
stacking the wafers
against the side of
the trifle bowl and between
the pudding layers
time in the kitchen
means stories. Time with granny
means love and hugs and
gentle corrections
until the perfect pudding
sits on the table,
chilled, ready to share.
I watch the lines of people
in their Sunday best
scooping creamy sweet
goodness on their plates, dipping
spoons on their way to
their seats at the long
tables. Dessert first, it seems.
Granny nods as they
eat. Sacred dessert
on a Sunday afternoon.
Made with sugared love.
Love your storytelling in poems, Melanie! I think I will be able to make the banana pudding pudding now too–I am not a fan, but it sounds so delicious in your poem. what is even more important is that baking is a treasured tradition:
“Love wrapped in
dough, cinnamon, and
sugar.”
This is precisely the way I look at my family traditions. Thank you for this gift of “sugared love today.”
Thank you so much, Leilya. It means a lot for you to say that!
I love so much of this, Melanie, but my favorite lines are “ingredients for a spell” and “time in the kitchen / means stories. Time with granny / means love and hugs” and “Dessert first, it seems”! So good (on multiple levels, lol)!
Thank you!
Melanie, what a beautiful story in this poem. The lines “ingredients for a spell, one that made people sigh and hum and dip . . .” creates this beautiful imagery and is reinforced with this Sunday dinner at the end where we as an audience can watch it happen. Thank you for sharing this today!
Thank you so much!
Candy making
My Uncle Bob’s grandkids called it “Grandpa’s fudge.”
My dad called it “blonde fudge,” which is its name in our family cookbook.
I’ve seen it called “opera fudge” in some cookbooks.
Whatever it’s called, my uncle claimed that only the men in the family could make it right.
Which is why he taught my dad how to make it when he asked.
I learned how to make it from watching my dad.
See, candy making is tricky.
Lots of things can go wrong:
Too much humidity,
An inaccurate candy thermometer
leading to under (or over) cooking
Which is why my dad taught me the water test
Where you drop some candy in cold water.
But then I’d always forget:
Does soft ball mean the ball holds its shape?
Or does it melt onto your finger?
Get it wrong and the candy doesn’t come out right.
I’ve burned my hands when the candy turned too fast
And needed kneading before it was cool enough to handle.
I’ve had the whole mess crystallize and harden because I overcooked it.
And I’ve had it turn out just right.
It’s the one candy I MUST make every Christmas season.
It reminds me of standing at the stove with my dad.
Of watching him pour the hot blend onto a buttered china platter to cool.
(Someday, SOMEDAY I will buy a marble slab).
Of seeing dad beating the cooled candy with a fork until it turned.
All the neighbors asked if they could be on Dad’s “candy list.”
Uncle Bob only had sons– did he teach them?
Probably not. But Dad taught me,
And so I make it, and I remember
How food brings people together.
This last line is perfect – – yes, food does bring us together. I’m a lover of all things candy, so this poem speaks to my tastebuds. I’d love a marble slab of something sugary and homemade – – that buttered china platter is the best in imagery – – I love it!
I love the different names for the fudge! I connected so much with the last line!
Thank you for sharing this candy making story for us, Sheila! I don’t make candy (well, I made some chocolate truffles ones and my mother-in-laws famous strawberry-coconut candy once), but this “Grandpa’s fudge” sounds like a tempting dare. I like how this memory reminds you about your dad making the “blonde fudge.” It’s these memories that make any dish special and bring us together.
Hi Jordan, thanks for the prompt today. I have way too many good memories. Will have to come back to this some day. I especially love these lines in your poem “Creamed by whirring mixers drowning out
Our background noise Christmas movies.” Because Christmas movies are just as important to me as the food! Great poem
We went all the way to Cappadocia
Supposedly Turkish food is the best
After walking around the hoodoos
We were starving for food and rest
I’ll say it even though it’s unpopular
Turkish meat? I’m definitely not a fan
So we skipped the hundreds of kebab
joints and came across none other than
Namaste Indian restaurant – delicious.
We ordered paneer kadai, gorgeous red gravy
with fresh capsicum, three servings of garlic
naan and dal makhani, thick and buttery
After the waitress took our order, she exclaimed,
“Having a feast?!” And it’s become me and
My husband’s inside joke whenever we order
too much food. “Having a feast?!” Yes. And??
The funny thing is, we’re in India now
And I’ve yet to taste anything as good
as that meal all the way in Cappadocia
Best thing I’ve had here was Chinese food!
Oh, I love the rhyme here, Angie. It really feels like a journey narrative of place and taste. that last line — “Best thing I’ve had here was Chinese food.”
I am now hungry for Indian food . . . great descriptions!
I love the decadence of “three servings of garlic / naan”!
Thank you for this story, Angie! I like the inside family jokes; we have a few too. Your final line is or ironic, but Chinese food is often so good. Your poem flows with such ease and rhythm. Your rhyming is effective; I especially like the one with “exclaimed – and.”
Angie,
This reminds me of my potato eating experiences in Peru, where potatoes are supposed to be the thing give they have over 3,000 varieties. Problem is they freeze dry and reconstitute their potatoes. ick. Anyway, I love Indian cuisine and your meal sounds amazing. “Having a feast” is fantastic as both experience and memory. Your travel is wonderful.
baking a cake
it was 9/11; we’d all just arrived home from school
Laura asked me to turn off the television,
her dad had been recording the day’s news
the recording could still go on with the television off
my mom always said when she felt out of sorts
she’d bake a cake
I grabbed my recipe binder and found her recipe
for Syrian Nutmeg Cake
the brown sugar and butter crust seemed perfect
we blended the brown sugar butter and flour
with our fingers before mashing it into the pan
as we continued to add ingredients
an egg smashed on the tile floor on the way to the mixing bowl
for a moment our 3 shifting bodies stopped
we stared at the egg on the floor
a quick drive to 7-11 remedied the need for another egg
and we were back to baking
we slipped the pan from the oven
anticipating the rich sweet cake
each of us sat down to eat a square of cake on a plate
Jamie,
I love this memory of “blended the brown sugar butter” and then the “stared at the egg on the floor”; and oh, the memory of 7-11 down the street (or knocking on a neighbor’s door is a memory you’ve stirred for me). Thank you.
Jamie — I appreciated the specifics of this poem. The jarring 9/11 and then ensuing redirection of energy to something as far from 9/11 as possible….when the egg broke “on the floor,” I felt my thoughts racing right back to 9/11. These days, I find myself in the kitchen, redirecting myself from the news. I am making a lemon meringue pie and a cherry pie for tomorrow. Thanks for baking with me. ;-). Susie
Jamie,
Baking a cake with your girls during a time of crisis is such an act of love and must have been reassuring for all of you. I like how you your Mom’s wisdom showed you the way.
Your last line is such a comforting return to the routine of daily, family life.
This is destined to be a day of cravings, Jordan. So glad others find joy in licking the beaters (I still do. I am an adult. I deserve it.). And, yes, so wonderful to be at the helm of our own kitchens. Your invite today was flavorful in all ways.
Bistro Basque
b.r.crandall
I’m not an eight-legged eater,
yet when barbecued in monkfish stew,
I can make them a holy night —
a celebration of the boys
left to our own bad choices.
I said I’d be the Uber
(ils étaient plus hauts qu’un kit)…
besides, losing a mother
can feel rather low.
Yes, I’m more Andre René Roussimoff
than Gambas Al Ajillo.
And it is true.
I’m the king of random non-commitments,
especially when allowed to be
old-fashioned & smoked with maple.
For this night, though,
I was obligated to
the tentacles of bébé pieuvre,
calamari circumcised in
freshly-thymed tomato purée.
Garlic, onion, & cayenne pepper
cooked with white wine & cognac,
turned into spur-of-the-moment,
Spanish tapas-try as we sat with
white-linen in a French bistro,
balanced beautifully by the blueberry flan.
We knew the reprimands would come.
They have access to our bank statements
(which made it easy to be accused
of spending too much money on a memory).
Worth every penny, though…
when life proves itself
delicious.
Bryan,
What is this beautiful phrase “obligated to/ the tentacles…circumcised” alongside the “white linen” image. Fantastic.
Sarah
Bryan, what a lovely homage to what sounds like a fantastic meal though paired with a difficult memory. I love the play on words with this stanza,
“And it is true.
I’m the king of random non-commitments,
especially when allowed to be
old-fashioned & smoked with maple.”
Oh, man, I love the truth of “spending too much money on a memory.” And I love all the flavors you bring in “freshly-thymed tomato purée. / Garlic, onion, & cayenne pepper / cooked with white wine & cognac.”
Bryan, I’ll let folks google “Andre René Roussimoff” but that’s a brilliant reference. And the last stanza is the chef’s kiss!
Bryan, you had me at “the king of random non-commitments,” but I am touched by simplicity and thoughtfulness of “spending too much money on a memory.” The picture and your description of “the tentacles of bébé pieuvre” make me so hungry.
Bryan, others have already mentioned the brilliance of “spending too much money on a memory,” and I heartily concur. I am not an eight legged eater either so it won’t matter how much you tell me this was an exceptional meal, I don’t think I could try it. The blueberry flan, however…
Thanks for this prompt, Jordan! What we eat is such a huge part of who we are!
Tasting Summer
The rains
h
o
l
d
off just long enough for us
to put seeds in the ground.
We till and we tend each
seed a purple-y dried up
kernel.
The beans
fit into white
remnants of
their past
matching the
flowers’ hue
of their future
“Look here, Punky.”
Papaw says.
Showing me how far
down
and how far
apart
the seeds should be.
Each sprouts from the ground
in their own time.
We watch and count the days
waiting for (and dreading) the
time to pick.
In their rise we hear the sounds
of shucking and breaking.
We taste the sweetness of
pollen in the air and
Earth.
Finally, the silks are brown
and the beans are long
and with joy we lift our arms to grab the ears
and with gratitude we bow to the Earth to pluck the beans.
We shuck the husks like
unwrapping a present
to reveal the gift born of
our toil and the heat and rain and sun.
We tell stories as we break the beans,
tales punctuated by the clink of bean against
metal bowl and swish of shuffling newspaper
against the unwanted stems.
Then we boil them both.
This first round of harvest.
Before we freeze and can
to plan for the winter
we savor
the flavor
this first taste
of summer.
First, let me say how much I like how you lay h-o-l-d out – it somehow mirrors the feeling as we wait for rain. These words are beautiful – The beans fit into white remnants of their past
matching the flowers’ hue of their future. Your words create a beautiful connection reflecting this natural process. The richness of flavor from products from the garden is unmatched.
I need to go out and plant in my garden RIGHT NOW after reading your poem. But not the beans– it’s too cold for them yet. I love how you’ve captured the sound of the beans plunking in the bowl– oh, memories . . .
I love the sound of this stanza:
We tell stories as we break the beans,
tales punctuated by the clink of bean against
metal bowl and swish of shuffling newspaper
against the unwanted stems.
Oh, Chea, your poem brings me back to my childhood following my Dad as he dropped the seeds into the soil. Each stanza reminds of the care he took of us and his vegetable garden. Love your ending:
“Before we freeze and can
to plan for the winter
we savor
the flavor
this first taste
of summer.”
Thank you for such a warm poem today!
Jordan, your prompt brings back fond memories of what was not much fun back then. They were chores!
Harvesting Fun!
While living on that little farm
I now recall with special charm
Was climbing for berries and cherries.
Scrambling sideways on slippery hill side
To gather bubbly sweet blackberries
Returning with full baskets and hearts full of pride.
Climbing up safely, we would chant
Sitting on firm cherry tree limbs
We could see all over the place
Down the valley and across the road
Sometimes hearing the croak of a toad
Then slide down the trunk and go out and gather
Harvesting what we did not plant
Wow! How annually blessed we were
The veggies we’d help plant last spring.
These would be cooked and canned
In heavy glass jars, that when full no longer ring.
Ripe black berries in jams and jellies
Often helped fill our hungry bellies
The firm ripe cherries filled up pie crust
Being careful not to spill any was a must
“Elbows off the table,” she’d verbally nudge
We were taught proper table etiquette
We followed each rule you can bet.
Still we would thankfully sing
We’re gonna have food all winter.
Natural or planted, look what He’s sent!
Look at that sweet picture! This poem brings memories of canning– oh, how I hated helping my mom can . . . but the food was so great to eat in the winter!
Anna, you show that even chores can be full of sweet memories! I love your faithful rhyme scheme that playfully guides us through the berry brambles. “Ripe black berries in jams and jellies/often helped fill our hungry bellies” packs in so much meaning with a strong image. Thank you for sharing today!
Jordan, thank you for this prompt and your sweet mentor poem. Food hods so much–culture, memories, lineage, growth, and experience. This is a great prompt!
Grandma’s Potato Pancakes
My mom asks, can you make your grandma’s
potato pancakes,
and Aunt Maureen is looking for
the recipe…
The recipe??? How does one
quantify the ingredients
gathered on a table, held together
by recycled stockings (the original
bungee cords?), and fried in love and
oil in a postage stamp of a kitchen?
The best I can do is,
gather all the potatoes you have,
discard the rotten ones,
shred them into tatters,
like the life you had after the war,
with a returned husband who was
forgetting himself,
add eggs for cohesion, because
things fall apart,
add flour, if you have, if not,
make due,
add onions that coax tears,
which you try to hold back,
add the salt
of those tearsto taste, and pepper
from the pepper shaker–
pilfered from the Chinese restaurant
where you took me as a treat–
mix and pour into the heat and oil
of a caste iron skillet as old as memory,
stack them as high as you can,
so they tower over tomorrow’s hunger,
and nurture us for a new day.
Wow Dave, this is an exquisite poem. You have blended the directions with real life actions, feelings, hardships with figurative language that fit so well and tell a story about your grandmother and family. I love every line but especially:
“add eggs for cohesion, because
things fall apart,”
Thanks for sharing such a meaningful poem!
I love how you knit life into the making of your grandma’s potato pancakes. The tatters of potatoes compared to the life after the war. And memory of origin of pepper pilfered from the Chinese restaurant where you took me as a treat. My grandmother’s recipe mentions not to grate your knuckles as you grate the potatoes. I always noticed that the color of the blood blended with the pink tinge of the potatoes.
What a gorgeous poem! I love the word play of tears. This is wonderful. I read it out loud to hear the rhythm of the words. They are as yummy as the food described!
Dave,
I often look at small kitchens and wonder how so much cooking happened in a tiny space, so I really like how you set the scene. I’m saddened by the line
”shred them into tatters,
like the life you had after the war,”
as the mother of to veterans, and that allusion to “things fall apart” is the chef’s kiss.
Dave— the way you link the recipe to our grandmother’s life—details sprinkled in that tell a story that honors your grandmother…
Dave — Those sound so grandma perfect…I love how they tiny kitchen is just the right setting for a concoction that is so well known that a recipe seems silly in good family tradition. I really love this poem, right down to the pilfered pepper shaker. Ha! Dandy! Susie
shred them into tatters…because things fall apart…onions that coax tears… Your poem, your recipe so perfectly tells this family story. Thanks so much for sharing!
Thanks, Jordan for this prompt. I have had writer’s block for a day or two. But in March I wrote 31 food poems, so now I can revisit one of them. I love “masters of the sprinkles.” I so love cooking with children!
Ambrosia
Whenever there was potluck,
my mother would bring ambrosia.
I’m not sure why, but I think
it was easy to make
for a busy working mother
and not very expensive.
So, year after year
she’d bring ambrosia
to Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter,
to birthdays, anniversaries, graduations.
No one had the heart to tell her
that we did not like ambrosia –
too related to Jell-O molds of the 70’s,
not a fan of mini marshmallows,
or sour cream for that matter.
But my mother loved ambrosia.
She loved those Mandarin oranges,
pineapple, coconut, and maraschino cherries –
the cherries that could make
you glow in the dark.
But my mother loved ambrosia,
and at Thanksgiving the year after she died,
I made a giant bowl of it to bring for potluck,
and we scooped heaping helpings,
sat together and gladly devoured
the fruit of the gods
and the pride of my mother.
Aw Joanne! My family was big on ambrosia and I loved it. However, I haven’t thought of it in so long living places where it’s not familiar. Isn’t it funny that the tradition sticks, even though you didn’t like it, for the pride of your mother”? Thanks for sharing a beautiful poem!
Joanne, you have a winner here – – I adore these lines
She loved those Mandarin oranges,
pineapple, coconut, and maraschino cherries –
the cherries that could make
you glow in the dark.
That is just perfect! And I can’t help thinking that by eating the glow-in-the-dark ambrosia, a little of her light shines through at the potlucks. Delicious – – and I am with your mother. I love ambrosia.
This poem brought back so many memories. I forgot about ambrosia– and you know what? My mom always brings it to potlucks.
Sigh. Another poem that made me cry! I love when we finally get all the ingredients—”those Mandarin oranges, / pineapple, coconut, and maraschino cherries” that your mother loved. And I love the voice/wit of or “the cherries the could make / you glow in the dark.” And of course I love that you all “devoured / the fruit of the gods” in your mother’s memory…
Joanne, you bring us into such a sweet memory, and I love how it comes full circle when you make it yourself. I especially adore the lines “the cherries that could make/you glow in the dark” because it certainly does seem like they could! I am also curious about your 31 food poems. They sound deliciously amazing!
I had forgotten all about ambrosia! Your poem and its detail take me right back to summer potluck dinners.
Jordan, I love the metaphor of your mom as magician and how you now take on that roll to pass down to your own children. This morning writing was interrupted by my grandson wanting to make banana bread. Which became a perfect setting for my poem.
Banana Bread (first line from Billy Collins)
I love the sound of
a grandson in the morning
finding the muffin tins
and demanding to bake with me.
We gather flour, sugar, butter, eggs–
Stir the dry.
Whisk the wet.
Smash dappled sweet bananas.
“When will the banana bread be ready? he whines,
melting my heart
with his crystal blue eyes.
Goodness takes time to rise.
Oh this is delightful and precious and your last line was emotional! So much sweetness here. Thanks for sharing.
Love those last two rhyming lines. And love the double meaning of “rise” that I’m reading. A lovely poem – I can see and hear everything.
And with this, it has risen with all of us. Such goodness, Margaret.
Oh, heavens! That last line turns it all into a magnificent metaphor of watching the goodness in your grandson as he grows. Every experience is stirring those ingredients of how to be the best mamere ever.
Oh, this one made my heart sing. I had such a close relationship with my Granny and cooking with her was such a joy. Waiting was so hard…I love the “stir the dry” and “whisk the wet”–lovely!
Margaret, the couplet at the end really brings us into the moment with you! Again, you remind us that sometimes the simplest of recipes hold the most meaning! Your second stanza is full of action, and I especially love the image of “Smash dappled sweet bananas.” Thank you for sharing this with us today!
Margaret! Ugh Banana Bread has been the rave for my friends and I currently right now. My mom knows how to make it best but I’m a baker myself and need to learn how to make my own specialty Banana Bread and hope to be making it with my future grandchildren Insha Allah.
Jordan,
Thanks for hosting. “masters of sprinkles” is a lovely image. I can smell and taste those cookies.
My poem is based on an event in 2019. It began as a journal entry from June 23, 2019.
Kind, Giving People
The world is full of kind, giving people.
If you’re an American traveling
abroad, you might meet other
Americans filled with wanderlust.
Perhaps you’ll have a chance
encounter in a Greek restaurant
on the Cycladic island Milos.
Perhaps a psychotherapist will
speak to you from across the table & invite you to taste her wine.
Perhaps a conversation begins.
You invite the friendly couple to join
you & your husband at your table.
You share conversation and wine.
You discover there are Texans who
feel as you do about “that guy.”
The psychotherapist and her husband—who works in bio-diesel technology—value education and ask to keep in touch.
At the end of the evening you learn
they have paid for the lobster you &
your husband splurged on to celebrate
your retirement.
You thank the kind couple for their generosity and tell them how much fun you’ve had meeting and talking to them.
You hug the wife & husband.
The men shake hands.
You know in your heart no one will stay in touch.
You decide that’s okay because for one evening,
the world felt a little more kind,
you felt a little more connected to other Americans, and
all seemed a little more right with the world.
In the years that follow you will think
fondly of the couple & remind yourself—
The world is full of kind, giving people.
Glenda Funk
April 19, 2025
June 23, 2019
This is really lovely. Lots of human connection and feelings with food posted here today. A lovely gesture and memory. Thanks for sharing this journal entry.
It’s funny how sometimes you meet more like minded people on the other side of the world rather than in the town you’re from. I’ve had many experiences like this. I love that you added in these lines:
I rarely stay in touch but that doesn’t mean that experience hasn’t shaped me in some way, had an effect on me. Thanks for sharing!
Glenda,
This is a heartwarming poem. I love how you frame the narrative with “Perhaps” in the opening stanzas. And the narrative exudes hope! This is the poem we all needed!
….and for some reason, travelers seem to be some of the kindest of all. I wonder sometimes if it’s just because they know it’s easier to give when there is not the feeling of the need for someone to reciprocate. I love that this couple paid for your lobster. I’m sure it made it all the more special because there was no expectation on either end. Sheer kindness and full ability to accept it as a true gift of joy from someone who could see the happiness and appreciate all that you gave the world in your many years of teaching. This is gorgeous, Glenda! There is still hope for humanity yet.
Glenda, I love how you invite us into this beautiful story by simply employing “you” throughout each stanza. It invites us to make these simple human connections even across continents, which is what we all need right now. Thank you for sharing this with us today!
Glenda, what a marvelous poem to show the generosity of strangers while traveling. I appreciate how you show the connections you make while getting to know each other while celebrating your retirement and the way you focus on the actions and your thoughts as they occur. Your ending is fantastic. I need to remind myself that the world is indeed full of kind, giving people. A very compelling poem full of compassion! Loved it!
Glenda — This poem is better than medicine…it is medicine. Just what I needed. I know there are good people out there ….lots of them. I appreciate that couple from TX and am grateful such folks exist. And folks like you, here, in this space, sharing what is good. Love, Susie
The world, indeed, is full of kind, generous people. Thank you for this poem, Glenda! When I feel hopeless or desperate, I try to think of these kind people. I also think that these seemingly random encounters are somehow meant to rekindle our faith in humanity.
Jordan,
What a great prompt! My description skills are weak. I opted to tell the story of our best meal ever in perfect me fashion of WAY too many details. I think I wanted to capture the entirety of the experience so I would never forget.
Fresh and Flavorful
In a city full
of well-known options,
we were overwhelmed
with where to eat
our only nice meal
of the weekend away.
On previous trips
we had eaten at
iconic places…
Rosebuds
Ed Debevics
Giordanos
and we resolved not
to repeat.
We asked locals.
We checked the dining
guide in our hotel.
We Googled.
When I saw Eataly
on the Google list,
I knew nothing about it,
but I recalled our
Italian neighbors
raving about it.
So after securing
a reservation (how?),
in the Uber we went,
headed to River North.
We were taken off guard
when we were dropped off
in front of a multi-level,
bustling space.
We walked in, surprised
to see shopping carts, baskets,
and a floor plan sign
like at the mall.
Were we at the right place?
How was this a restaurant?
We browsed the immense
market of every Italian product
possible, wanting to buy but
knowing it was impractical.
We made our way to Vino &,
an area with tables nestled
amidst a butcher shop,
a fishmonger,
a fresh pasta station
with every type of
Italian delicacy
on the perimeter.
Our senses were in overload
and after a raucous
Billy Joel and Stevie Nicks
concert at Soldier Field
the night before,
we had wanted a quiet meal.
We were seated at a two-top
close enough to a family of four
with two toddlers
to reach out and adjust
the kid’s napkin.
On the other side,
was a very obvious first date
that we felt a part of.
We had a server who
didn’t bother hiding
his annoyance at our
ignorance and naivete
as we asked questions
about the menu.
Everything about this
was far from what we wanted.
We considered getting up
and leaving.
My husband is not a wine drinker
and with a little arm twisting,
we ordered a flight.
We gave our impatient server
full latitude on what wines
we sampled.
We tried to navigate the
mostly Italian menu as
we sipped on diverse wines
and created an invisible bubble
sheltering us from the chaos
of the toddler table and
the awkwardness of Hinge hell.
We ordered…
my husband opted for Tagliatelle Alla Bolognese and
I chose Gnocchi al Pomodoro.
We nibbled on a hard-crusted baguette
dipped in olive oil, balsamic, and spices while our bubble burst as
Toddler 1 dropped a bowl of gelato
in her lap sending the server
in a flurry (he saw tip $$$ in that family)
and Girl in Pursuit seemed
quite miffed that her date
had his phone out
checking on his Fantasy Baseball team. .
This was far from the perfect date
we had hoped for.
One chance to relish in fine dining
and this is where we landed??
Then,
our dishes came
complete with freshly ground black pepper and parmesan cheese.
Bite one for each of us…
our eye brows lifted.
Bite two.…
an instinctive, involuntary Mmmmmm came from each of us.
The hassle, bustle, annoyance,
unexpected environment, lukewarm waiter, rambunctious toddlers,
and cringey daters
all fell away as our mouths
were met with the best meal
we had ever had.
Still today,
my mouth waters thinking
of the gnocchi dish
at Eataly that
was so delicious
I blocked out everything
but what was happening
to my tongue.
Some places have the ambiance
that makes the experience.
Others have a raucous environment
that enlivens the experience.
Our place had food—
the most delicious, unexpected
food ever—
a meal we will never forget.
~Susan Ahlbrand
19 April 2025
Susan, your poem brings all the feelings we have when we go out and want a quiet experience. After a concert the night before, what more could you ask for? I loved it all but this part best:
we sipped on diverse wines
and created an invisible bubble
sheltering us from the chaos
of the toddler table and
the awkwardness of Hinge hell.
I’m told I have a baby magnet attached to me. I have one friend who will send me random texts: Kim, are you in Longhorn? There’s a baby screaming up by the bar. I say that to say that I know the frustration of dining near toddlers – – they are fun most everywhere but in restaurants and grocery stores……
Bring on the diverse wines and the invisible bubbles.
Oh, you are taking me home to all my Chicago stomping grounds. We’d eat fries at Ed’s when I was a teenager. That “raucous environment” for sure.
Susan, oh your poem is such a relatable story! But isn’t it great when we find those hidden gems? The meals are always amazing, and we get a great story out of it! I loved how you built this “invisible bubble” and you captured it perfectly when the moment it burst with
“We nibbled on a hard-crusted baguette
dipped in olive oil, balsamic, and spices while our bubble burst as
Toddler 1 dropped a bowl of gelato
in her lap sending the server
in a flurry (he saw tip $$$ in that family)
and Girl in Pursuit seemed
quite miffed that her date
had his phone out
checking on his Fantasy Baseball team. .”
Thank you for sharing this with us today!
Susie, what an experience. Eataly, certainly, seems unsettling and noisy, but I was waiting for the shift in your poem, and here it came:
” The hassle, bustle, annoyance,
unexpected environment, lukewarm waiter, rambunctious toddlers,
and cringey daters
all fell away as our mouths
were met with the best meal
we had ever had.”
And I loved every word of it! Thank you, Susie
Jordan,
thank you for hosting and giving us a prompt that shook loose so many memories.
I love the sense of tradition being passed down:
and
Delightful!
—————————————————
Components
string beans
deep green, long and crooked
picked from my grandfather’s garden
snapped into a metal bowl
as my grandmother taught me
tonatoes
tender, sweet and revelatory
on our first trip to Italy
parmesan and balsalmic
aged five, ten, and thirty years
on our last night
of our last trip to Italy
blueberries
tiny, tart, and wild in the woods
behind the church
where our second cousin
ran from a bear
Such delightful little tastes of the memories here. love the bear, seems like the most important detail and memory of the poem! thanks for sharing a bite.
Sharon, each stanza could be an individual poem. Seems you start and end in Maine with Italy in the middle. Each image rich with meaning – as my grandmother taught me, trips to Italy memories, bear encounter for blueberries. Snapshots.
Sharon, I love the line “tiny, tart, and wild in the woods” as it could describe a person not only those blueberries. Ha.
Sharon, I love how you take us on a bit of a global adventure with your poem. Such simple ingredients that take on new meaning in the right place. Your last stanza hit with those lines “tiny, tart, and wild in the woods” and brought in some excitement with “where our second cousin/ran from a bear.” Leaves us wanting more! Thank you for sharing this today!
During a really really challenging and defeating school year, I got a job at a diner near my house. For something new, a break from students, and some extra cash. I didn’t expect to still be working there on Sundays and summers for years after…
more coffee?
Sausage, over medium, sourdough,
add jam, add peanut butter?
Yeah, he comes here every Tuesda
with his old pals.
Egg white omelette, veggies, sausage,
add avo, sourdough, fruit cup?
He sits at the counter to chat with the guys
before heading to work at the beer distributor.
Mr. & Mrs. grilled sticky?
Their grandson comes to visit next weekend
they can’t wait!
Chorizo burrito by himself?
He baked me a loaf of bread for Christmas
and carved designs into the top.
I sliced the bread for my freezer.
Half cups of coffee with a pot of hot water
because it’s “too strong”?
They couldn’t come on the usual Thursday,
so they came on a Saturday to see if I got
that job I told her about.
She hugged me and wished me all the luck
and I cried.
It sounds so simple,
but pouring coffee with a smile
has changed my life
in so many ways.
Oh, this is classic – – you have named the customers, the “regulars,” with their regulars. I like Chorizo Burrito by himself guy….it sounds like a man’s name and lo and behold he’s an artisan with bread baking skills too. Sounds like an interesting fellow. And the half cup of coffee with half water couple…..you must have a phenomenal memory. You sure have a phenomenal poem.
C.O.,
By the penultimate stanza, you had me chocking up. Love this story of simple human conmection—seeing, listening, and showing up. Your poem shows both how simple and profound those acts are. Good for you!
This reminds me of Piano Man and someone working at Louie’s Cafe, the best diner right in the vicinity of LSU’s campus. I would totally write a poem about a meal if I had ever eaten there while sober! I especially love the story in your fifth stanza.
This is what connecting with others is all about! Making community, caring for one another, showing interest. Your poem embraces it all. I agree with Kim. Chorizo Burrito is the best moniker, but Half Cups is just the best!
Oh, how lovely to circle to the simple and intentional move of “pouring coffee” in such a way.
Having worked as a server, I know how meaningful customers become, and I really like the way you create people by describing what they order and following it w/ your very touching connection to them. Then you remind us how important work often discounted by rich and powerful is w/ these last lines:
“It sounds so simple,
but pouring coffee with a smile
has changed my life
in so many ways.”
This poem is so good. I think it’s going to stick w/ me a while. It makes me want to work as a server again.
C.O., first and foremost, I am grateful you continue to work at this special place because that is a form of self-care. Teaching is brutal and when they (higher ups) tell us to take care of ourselves, they don’t actually mean it. They want us to be healthy enough to keep showing up in our classrooms. It’s terrible.
Your relationship with the people who come to the diner is heaven-sent. This is why I am always extra considerate of servers in restaurants. Sometimes the customers are bringing the light and the care they need to keep pushing on.
You are doing the right thing, C.O. Don’t let anyone tell you differently. Keep smiling and keep bringing your best self to whatever you do.
C.O., your poem really show so many small moments that leave such a large impact on us. I love each stanza about how each customer “shows up” in more ways than one. Thank you for sharing this with us!
Jordan, the masters of sprinkles – – now this is the language of Christmas baking. If every kid got an award for what they did best in the kitchen that year like best beater licker or best batter stirrer or best bowl scraper or best whatever…..the coveted award would be the sprinkle master. Yes, that’s what I want to be. Thanks for hosting us today with all the best memories. You have a masterpiece poem today.
Fresh Sprout Wrap
lots of things I don’t do right in this world
but making a fresh sprout and kale wrap
with beets and a half dollop of
mayonnaise is not one of
them, fortunately ~ and
the difference is
right outside on
the porch where
it grows
fresh
Love the connection to right outside your door. And the chosen form for this poem. Starts with a broad concept and narrows down to the simple difference of being fresh. Lovely.
Kim, you bring in so much detail to simplicity! I think sometimes we take for granted those really simple meals that are loaded with memory. We have had many forms this month that start with one syllable, but I love how you end on one, tying into that specific image of gathering this food nearby. Thank you for sharing!
Kim! I want to sit on that front porch and eat right from the fresh grown produce with you! (admittedly, I’m trying to wrap my head around your sprout, kale, beet, mayo combo as I don’t think I’ve had anything like that before) Are you already harvesting in Georgia? I envy you!
Kim, this is delightful in the ingredients and the process and the strong sense of place “the porch where/it grows/fresh.” It is home, and so you do it “right”.
Kim,
My youngest son and I just talked about fresh herbs last night and how much of a difference they make in our food. My kid is a superb cook and fed me rainbow trout w/ jalapeño sauce/paste when I arrived yesterday. He has cherry tomatoes growing in the house under a grow light and herbs growing in hydroponic containers I’m going to share your poem w/ him. I know he’ll love it, as do I.
What a yummy wrap and poem! I think in a past life I lived in a countryside with spacious gardens of fresh flowers, fruits and veggies. I am instantly drawn to places where food can be eaten directly from the yard. Enjoy a wrap for me, please!
Kim — I’m laughing…I really do NOT like kale, but your poem actually makes me think maybe I should give it another shot. Hugs, Susie
How do you do it? You chose the perfect form to capture your topic.
Jordan, there’s nothing like thinking of food to get one out of bed in the morning! I am now in search of something with warm vanilla and toasted sugar. Love the magical moment (and your magician mom)!
spring peas
we pat the mounded earth
small, dried peas nestled inside
sprinkle water over the top
and wait
our first gardening venture
we chose our favorites,
my sister and I,
she picked radishes
(why?)
soon, small green shoots emerge
and then
as time often shows
shoots turn to pods and
we are plucking them
splitting open seams
swollen with sweetness
popping them like candy
one after the next
into mouths, onto tongues
I think of these early days
every time my own two boys
ask for spring pea soup
its nourishing goodness
filling small mounded bellies
patted gently
Spring pea soup? Yum! Love the question for sister’s choice of radish and how those peas, “swollen with sweetness/popping like candy.” There’s a lot of “S” sounds in this poem. I like the soothing sound of those s-es. Nice.
Jennifer — Aah, the difference between “spring peas” and “peas”….you make those “spring peas” come to life and I remember “splitting… seams…sweetness…candy.” My doggo loves frozen peas and pops them much like. you’ve described here. Your “two boys” are lucky…give this poem to them on Mother’s Day.
Then, rub their grown up bellies…it’ll be fun. I appreciate when your poem takes me back to that kid joy with spring peas. Who EVER thought you could put anything close to that goodness in a tin can? Grey peas…blech! Hugs, Susie
So much beautiful alliteration here and vivid spring verbs and actions. Thanks for sharing a taste.
Gorgeous alliteration, Jennifer: “splitting open seams / swollen with sweetness.” So, so tasty on the morning palette. Delicious.
Jennifer, the alliteration here is perfection:
I’m not a fan of peas but your poem makes me want some.
Jennifer, you play with the senses with your seamless alliteration, especially in the lines “splitting open seams/swollen with sweetness . . .” and I laughed a bit at your aside about the radishes. Also wonderful how you can bring the spring pea soup from the memory of childhood to your own children now, which makes it all the sweeter. Thank you for sharing!
Nothing better than peas straight from the pod. Beautiful memory, alliteration that sizzles (see what I did there???). I’ve never had spring pea soup. I think I should…
Jordan— thank you for the excuse to flash back to food moments. I felt the magic of your Christmas cookies—your mom, the magician, you watching and waiting. I’ll bet you snuck a few tasted of the cookie dough! Beautiful poem. Beautiful start to my day!
Sunday Morning Coffee
My grandfather was a quiet, gentle man.
I was three.
The silver percolator burbled away
as he fixed our breakfast on Sunday mornings.
We sipped our coffee
(mine was mostly milk and sugar)
at a small table
in a small kitchen,
the morning light streaming in,
dunking our cinnamon skorpers.
It was just the two of us.
The best man in the world and me
in a tiny kitchen
at a tiny table.
Sipping coffee.
Sharing love.
GJSands
4/19/25
What a jewel. Skorpors? I don’t know that term—but it doesn’t matter. I know it was something yummy shared with a beloved grandfather. I love the detail of the percolator. They were a bit of magic to kids back then. How DID the grown ups know when the coffee was ready? But, they always did. There’s magic in this poem.
Gayle, I love everything about this gentle image–the movement from long, large lines to just the two of you as the poem focuses in on two words, two words, you two, the gentleness of the words (burbled, sipped, streaming, skorpers) reflecting the gentleness of you both, the attention to “the best man in the world” and how oh so important that is. The perfect recipe for love!
Gayle — Those weekend morning quiet times ring so familiar and especially the cinnamon “skorpers”…I reckon those must be the same goodies my mama made. Mmmm-mmm! Any time “just the two of us” happens in a family, it is precious. You captured that beautifully. Love it. Susie
Such a lovely image of sharing coffee. My gramma always had clear glass coffee and tea mugs which I thought was so fascinating. Enjoy your coffee and memories today.
Gayle, there is nothing more precious than just the two of us. What gets any better than coffee and cinnamon skorpers? I’m going to have to look that up and dream about it! The silver percolator is a Cadillac of coffee makers – – I have my mother’s and just used it this morning. I always get it out Easter weekend – – the same coffeemaker that perked as I was a child is still going strong. They don’t make things like they used to………
Your poem perks with precious moments today.
So beautiful, Gayle. I forgot about the percolators in the homes of my grandparents (and even the heavy cream & sugared coffee moments). You brought me back to the two kitchens where I was first treated like an adult. Written with such grace and good taste. Thank you.
Gayle, you made me wish to be there with you and your beloved grandfather. I am sure you were his “best granddaughter in the world” just as he was to you. My grandmother’s kitchen resembled this one and she had one of those ollllllld coffee percolators that I can still see in my mind today. Thank you for taking me back to a special time.
Gayle, thank you for sharing this today! I love the focus on such a small moment as a small person that made such a large impact! I love the repetition of “at a small table in a small kitchen” and “in a tiny kitchen, at a tiny table” to enforce these tiny details, but they are ones we cannot forget.
So much love.
Oh, this was fun….oh, so fun. Thank you. I don’t know why the memory that came to mind is the one that did. It was a great meal. But, the best? Maybe. I was young and proud to cook a successful dinner. I love your line, “Back then, Ma’s magic in flour, butter, sugar” That’s the truth, right there. Wonderful poem. Thank you.
Sausage-spinach Stuffed Shells
Pre-heat newlywed’s apartment with anticipation of guests arriving soon.
Boil shells. Drain, lightly oil and set aside to cool next to the clock radio.
Fry sausage to the tunes of Boyz to Men, Mariah Carey and Madonna. Drain sausage and set aside. In a separate bowl mix cheeses with egg and herbs from Grandma’s garden. Dance for a little for extra flavor. Fold in spinach remembering picking greens for dinner back home. Stir in cooled sausage.
Lightly spray pan, cover the bottom with a light coating of sauce. Peek out the window at the parking lot. Are they here yet? Carefully fill each shell with the sausage, spinach and cheese mixture and place in rows in the sauce. Cover with a light blanket of shredded mozzarella and bake until the doorbell rings.
Take baked shells out of the oven and give time for the dish to set as company arrives and a bottle of wine is opened. This is the first and only time you will ever decant wine–who really decants anyway? But, grown-up and sophisticated. Cheers!
Serve shells and bask in the flavor of your favorite aunt’s comment–I could eat myself sick on this.
Linda, writing a memory recipe popped into my mind today too and I’m so glad you did it (so much better than mine would have been). It brings back memories of the first time we invited non-family for dinner, trying for sophistication. I’m pretty sure it didn’t turn out as well as yours did. Love the herbs from Grandma’s garden.
Oh this is so fun. Love the recipe format here. How sweet! Decant away! Use the special things because life is special!
Linda, the song remembers when – — and your memory preserves the what and the who…..I’m right there with you, friend! Baking until the doorbell rings is my favorite surprise, and the decanting of wine – – so true! And as we age, we even skip the glass, too…..this is a gem of a poem today, and I smell the lasagna from here.
Linda, I loved how you adapted the form of a recipe with poetry! I love the audible imagery with “Fry sausage to the tune of Boyz to Men . . .” and the line “Dance for a little extra flavor.” What a precious time these moments are. Thank you for sharing!
They say that smells trigger
memories, scenes of your life
in aroma and odor. You forget
that part of your life until you
don’t and then you can’t because
you remember the pinch of nutmeg
in the sauce simmering for lasagna.
You forget until the rubber sole
of your sneaker reminds you of
the gynmastic mat in 6th grade
when you tumbled off the pommel
horse face first. I like to think of
it as a matter of rewitnessing—
we think we’ve lived a certain kind
of life until we are invited to see
again through scent: the chlorine
in our towel is the time you crushed
a robin’s egg while dancing on the
blacktop; the moldy book is your
father’s lecture on Zen and maybe
a motorcycle or something– but, gosh,
was that a passionate yarn. It’s
all glimpsing your life again, only from
now, and maybe with a certain
gentleness for your becoming.
Sarah—I rushed through your poem, as you demanded of me, the first time through. Then I read it again to see its many parts. The last few lines allowed me to breathe again. Beautiful.
It’s neat how the memories in this poem that are not mine bring to mind my own memories…yes, to the trigger of scent. There are so many scents that are perfume but not made as perfume. That chlorine in the towel, that book fragrance. I love the little trip back into someone else’s time that delivers me to mine.
Sarah, we want our writing to draw the reader in with their own experiences, to connect to the words through description and senses. Your memories pulled my own forward, reminded me of similar times, so much so that I could smell them. Love those last three lines.
Sarah — You can most certainly use this poem as your own prompt with young writers…it so perfectly renders the anatomy of recollection through a smell…just how that works to bring you once again to a specific moment. I used to be amazed that smell was so powerful, but you make that so so clear here. The “chlorine” and the “nutmeg” and the “moldy book”…. wonderful vignettes with a “certain/gentleness.” Thank you. Susie
Love all the smells explored here. The first cut into garlic does it for me. I’m in my babysitter’s kitchen on sauce day. Lovely memories triggered in the olfactory way. Thanks for sharing these
Sarah, I’m with you at those awkward turns of memory that come out of nowhere, taking us back to moments we wish we could relive, those we wish had never happened, those that anger us from out of nowhere all over again when we think of the shoulda coulda woulda regrets…..all resurrected by smells and sights of things. This is powerful – – and I’m sorry you tumbled off the pommel horse face first. That hurts to think about.
Sarah, oh, the smell of the gym mat. Wow, I’m certain I have not thought about that memory in over 20 years. Chlorine in towels is definitely in my aroma memory bank and comes back to me often. I absolutely adore the ending. Brings a soft closure to the journey of aromas and memories.
Sarah, I love how you focus on smell bringing back memories! This is definitely a shared experience so many of us have, but sometimes I feel in poetry we often deny our sense of smell. The lines “you forget that part of your life until you/don’t and then you can’t because/you remember the pinch of nutmeg . . .” The play on those negatives creates a unique sense of rhythm. Thank you for sharing today!
“To see again through scent”
is such a lovely invitation.
Thank you for inviting me.