Ingredients with John Noreen
Welcome to Day 1 of the March Open Write. We are so happy you are here, however you choose to be present. If you know what to do, carry on, if you are not sure, begin by reading the inspiration and mentor poem, then scroll to the comment section to post your poem. Please respond to at least three other poems in celebration of words, phrases, ideas, and craft that speak to you. Click here for more information on the Open Write.
John Noreen lives in Grand Rapids, Michigan where he is a burgeoning educator and a graduate student at Aquinas College. Prior to entering the field of education, John spent his twenties writing and performing comedy in Los Angeles. John has written two unpublished novels and is medium-proud of one of them. He lives for his wife, daughter, and two chihuahua mixes.
Inspiration
As winter turns to spring, I want to pay homage to the food that has provided me with so much comfort during the dark months. While food has the power to fortify health, my relationship with food has not always been healthy. As this process of acceptance continues, I want to take a moment to express my gratitude for what food provides, which is often far more than fuel.
Today’s poem is a celebration of life and food’s ability to create community and bring all of us together.
One poem I love that gets at the manifold meanings of food in a beautiful way is this one from Michigan State alum Marianne Chan.
Process
Create the way you cook. Everyone has a different process in the kitchen. If you’re someone who refuses to deviate from a strict recipe, find a poetic form that inspires you and stick directly to it. If you have no idea what you’re eating until it’s on the plate, write the same way.
Some people improvise relentlessly in the kitchen, adding and seasoning until the last second, using whatever is on hand. Some people prep meticulously, making sure all ingredients are ready to go before igniting the flame.
I tend to choose a central ingredient, get going, and improvise along the way. I do this to avoid overthinking. I enjoy the process of cooking nearly as much as the result. This is also how I write poetry. It’s never perfect, but it usually hits the spot.
John’s Poem
Soft spittle drips down my daughter’s chin
Laced with the hint of American Cheese
Landing in globs on the ground
Quickly gobbled up by chihuahuas
Cheeks as plump as Santa’s gut
Ripe apples laughing at me
Begging for my bite
As the dogs lick the crumbs
From the cracks between her toes
Her infancy simmers
Steam rising in the air
Soft custard of existence
The eggs are done, only slightly burnt
neither of us mind
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.
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April is National Poetry Month. The Ethical ELA community creates a celebration of all that poetry does for our hearts and minds by offering daily writing inspiration and a supportive space to discover what happens when we write poetry all month long.
Am I cooking; or just making dinner tonight?
Most nights I make dinner
An assembly of ingredients
That fulfills a need for
Daily nourishment.
It is an efficient affair.
Sometimes, I cook.
Norah Jones likely crooning from Alexa,
Sizzling sound of sautéing
Adding nuance.
Ingredients strewn across countertops
Grouped by the dish they will support
Or the preparation required.
Onions and garlic piled by the cutting board
Charcuterie piled by another
A promising bottle of wine
Waiting to be decanted.
While I love the humans, big and small,
That eat all these meals,
I feel the ones I have cooked have been more
Sufficiently infused
With its tenderness.
John, what a treat! Thank you for your poem. It is a homage to the fleeting moments that define life in Baby land. Love the “ripe apples laughing” line
Cooking
I never cooked much growing up.
But I remember specific moments
watching and waiting
Banana’s Foster
fresh caramel in a pan
not burnt, but amber in sight.
bananas simmering in its sweet
Mom’s belly laughs and warmth
Chicken and Dumplings
hot and salty–good for the soul
celery and pepper at equilibrium
Noodles burning at the bottom
Sickness requires a little warmth sometimes.
Cheese Roll
uncomfortable conversations
cream cheese and nuts
simplicity coated in chili powder
How am I supposed to be okay?
Peppermint Cake
a family tradition–
strong cake, strong icing,
strong mints crushed on top– all the color pink
It’s a tradition to cry on your birthday.
Amazing. Even if you don’t cook, food has that power to transport you to the past. Well done.
Sydney,
I could just taste all of these foods as you described them! My mouth was watering. Thank you for sharing these memories with us!
John, I loved how your poem was so visual; I can picture you and your daughter sharing this little meal. It inspired me to write about my youngest and our dinnertime ritual. Needs a new title–maybe “Untitled”?
Supper snuggles
You eat only half
and make your way
past your brother
past your daddy
slowly slyly nonchalantly
and settle in
on my lap
every night
Often I’ve eaten only half
and send you back, annoyed
Why can’t you wait until later?
But you know
later I will be busy
I am rarely still
Someday this will end
You will eat and be satisfied
to stay next to your brother
but not yet
Please not yet
“slowly slyly nonchalantly” – the force of those three together is momentous. I love how you simultaneously recognize your annoyance and that this time is precious.
Chiara,
Your poem speaks to my mom heart. Most my children are adults, I miss the days your poem speaks about. How I wish for one more snuggle from them, but not sure my almost 30-year old world comply.
This speaks of the push and pull of being a mom. You captured the desire to hold on to the moments and the constant pressure to do so succinctly.
I love when we have food days at school. It is a time for us to gather, share recipes, share food, and relax. The smells, the joy. So, I decided to write about it! Thanks for this prompt!
It always begins
with a pen
and scrap paper.
A list forms quickly
from the racing hand of our leader
someone bring bread
me!
who has a desert?
Come on Tracy-make that cake!
and so on
until all is covered.
Then comes the day
Food Day.
Unroll the parchment paper
lay out the plates
stack the napkins
line up the crockpots
gather the teachers
form a line
spoonfuls of yum
laughs and giggles
sharing stories and food
to dive into
and enjoy.
Alexis, I loved the line: “spoonfuls of yum”! I might start using that in my daily vocabulary with my kids! Food day is the best at school–such a wonderful way to learn more about colleagues. So often we are in our own space and don’t have time to share ourselves with one another.
You captured the communal possibilities of food so well!
Alexis,
I love a good potluck. Your poem reminds me of the planning and work that goes into pulling one off.
Thanks for sharing.
Thank you for the prompt today.
I love baking for my family
Apple Pie
Granny Smith tart sweet
Cinnamon sugar coated
Baked in pastry sheets
It’s not even 8AM and my mouth watered reading this. You manage to sneak everything delicious about apple pie into a single haiku. Wonderful!
So simple and so filling a read! Lovely, DeAnna. Who doesn’t have at least one apple pie memory this taps?
DeAnna,
Very nice and making me salivate…except now I have to make a tart (or pie!). 😉
The simplicity in this poem makes in powerful, and sweet! And makes me want to bake a pie!
I like how this poem is like a slice of a pie: so delicious that it makes me want more!
Thank you, John. I loved the intimate breakfast between you and the baby. “Ripe apples laughing at me” was a favorite line for me! Thanks for introducing me to Marianne Chan, too.
I’ve been painting my house today thinking of food and being in the kitchen, but mostly I thought of water and how very important it is to life–physically and spiritually.
Living Water
Thinking of ingredients in my kitchen:
rice, beans, tofu, oil, garlic, onions,
so many.
Which is most important?
None of those.
Perhaps there is only one
we can’t live without–
Water–
the neglected, unmentioned
ingredient in most recipes.
I use it in everything, really.
It takes the crunch out of pasta,
puts the porridge in oatmeal, and
stop a second and imagine with me…
How would tea and coffee be without it?
It covers a multitude of issues,
A stew multiplies into a soup
A thick, globby mess transforms into gravy
A varnished stir fry pan (looking impossible
to clean) magically deglazes into rich broth
Water saves a dehydrated person,
Removes paint* from skin,
And, of course, as you know
the water usage list is endless
Which reminded me today
of you, the Living Water.
Moses hit you in the desert
and you poured out for all
the thirsty rebels
When you were by the well
You asked her
for a drink of water.
Suffering in the heat of the day,
she drew water up
in her leather bucket
and gave some to you–
clear, cool, hydrating.
Then you gave her Living Water
so she’d never thirst again
You saw her,
redeemed her,
gave her hope.
She learned, as I can,
about living water
the one I can’t live without–
the one I can’t Love without.
Denise,
I love this! Water is the one thing we absolutely can’t live without and you wrote a beautiful love letter to it.
Denise,
Water is truly the one thing we can’t live without. I enjoyed your tribute to my third favorite drink.
The relief hit me like i kind punch with this stanza
“When you were by the well
You asked her
for a drink of water.”
It is so easy to take water for granted. Thank you for giving it its touching due.
Awww. I love that closing line. Romantic in a way. But, yes, thank you for this because I also think about and appreciate CLEAN water every day! With the Flint Water Crisis and communities wiped out by broken dams fifty miles on either side of me, water is a constant in our minds in this area. Being with it. Being without it. Being poisoned by it. Being displaced by it. So many ways we know water. I especially enjoyed the line “It takes the crunch out of pasta” – ahh, I hadn’t thought of adding water to take something away. And the paint on the hands. Yes. Yes. Wonderful perspective! Thank you, Denise!
I feel refreshed in spirit and soul by reading this poem. Thank you!
I love the pivot to living water, and how you directly speak to it in this poem.
During the school year, meals look totally different than during the summer. I am dreaming of sunny days!
In March
I order vegetable seeds.
In May
I plant them, indeed.
In June and July
I nurture their needs;
I protect from the sun;
I pull out the weeds;
I water every morning;
and evening with ease.
In August
I harvest and
bake with tomatoes, basil,
and cheese
I pick fresh greens;
I prepare them to feed
my family and friends.
I am proud of the ingredients
that were once seeds.
Rachelle, what a great experience to be able to watch seeds grow to the table. I love your poem, with its sweet rhymes. And my mouth drooled when I imaged the red, red tomatoes with basil. So yummy! The season starts!
Rachelle,
I love that you went to the origin and growing of foods rather than the preparation. I would like to fast forward to August for those tomatoes with basil and cheese! Well, and then back to now so I don’t have to miss the rest of summer. 😉
Rachelle,
I enjoyed your poem. I do not have the same green thumb as you, but I sure love the fresh tomatoes.
I love this seasonal approach, and that you start with the food well before it is food. It helps me make even greater understanding of the miracle that is food!
Rachelle, it does, for me, take thankfulness for food to a whole new level when I myself saw the seed from which it came. Thank you for this meditation on that idea!
Kitchen Battlefield
By: Emily Yamasaki
It’s like a foreign language
You know it makes sense to others
But you’re befuddled
The ingredients
The preparation
Chopping, so much chopping
Steps
Wait time
And dishes
So many dishes
At the end of my nightly battle
Standing sweating swearing
Over the stove
That’s when I hear the call of victory
I clink the plate on the table
turn off the hood fan
And on cue comes the gasp and
“It’s dinner time?”
In that sweet voice only a toddler can use
Guess I’ll see you on the battlefield tomorrow
Emily, I felt many lines of this poem — especially “chopping, so much chopping”. Thanks for sharing!
Emily, I pictured that toddler in the kitchen helping you with “chopping, so much chopping…And dishes, so many dishes” He’ll be there before you know it. I love the image of the kitchen battlefield.
Yes! The beauty and the battle of cooking for toddlers! I love the journey of this poem. From intimidation to victory in only a few stanzas.
Eggs
Perfect ovals
white, brown, speckled, dyed
during March and April
mixed often with a fork or whisk
shell broken
dropped on the floor sometimes
broken against a bowl
separated often for recipes
used to make a cake rise or a souffle
come alive
or to help cookies have less crumbs
they’re versatile enough to sit under a hen or
on a cool kitchen counter or
in a refrigerator
Folks consume them many ways
poached, fried, boiled, in a sandwich,
in omelettes.
Or they drink it in a glass
like Rocky.
They’re best, though,
simply scrambled with a variety of cheddar cheeses
and a dash of salt and pepper.
Ah! The versatility of the humble egg. Your last stanza stood out to me because scrambled eggs with cheddar cheese is a go-to for me! Quick, easy, and filling! Thanks for sharing!
Seana, what a lovely encounter with the egg today. So many ideas. I love the stanza about the versatility of the lowly egg!
I had a boiled egg today, and your post reminded me of poached eggs. I like them and it’s been a long time, so maybe that will be next time.
I have never eaten more eggs than I do right now due to our young child, and thus, my appreciation has never been higher. Thank you for giving me a poem that allows me to sing their humble praises!
Seana, you wrote a poem about one of my favorite foods! I just dropped one on the floor today, as a matter of fact! I love your stanza about their versatility. I think I might make a poached egg for dinner!
Music of the Kitchen*
Pan hits the range
with a Sousa clang ^
followed by low thrumming of the whisk
against a sizzling dab of Kerrygold
Tone deepens as <poof> flour
meets fat
bubbling paradiddles
until ((subito piano)) splash of cream
quiets the theme
And then: the burbling crescendo
demanding a flourish of cheddar
Macaroni al dente waits in the wings
*composed in the key of yum
Delicious poem! I wish I knew more about music to make a fantastic pun about that too! I love the “Macaroni al dente waits in the wings” to bring it all together. Thanks for this composition 🙂
Bubbling crescendo! I loved your blend of kitchen sounds with music!
Oh, I would love to enjoy eating this, and hearing the clangs, burbles, bubbles, poofs, and thrumming as the meal is prepared. Definitely in the key of yum. Sweet poem, Allison.
Allison,
I love the music of your poem. Now I want a gooey bowl of mac and cheese.
This is such an extremely fun poem. Cooking, in so many ways, is a dance, and you give its its rightful theme.
Holy moly! Allison, I can hear the music in this little symphony of a poem. Just wonderful word choices. You are SUCH a skilled poet as you capture the “paradiddles” and the “Asiago adagio” and finally “the key of yum”! So witty! So right! Wouldn’t it be fun to cook together! Poets and music and food = voilà …MAGIC!
What a delicious and musical treat! I could taste it and hear it all the way through. Wonderful!
“Soft custard of existence” is exquisite. What a lovely poem.
Thank you, Allison!
I’m writing from México, vacationing and celebrating a wedding. I have been thinking about this prompt all day long! Food. Comida. It is the love language of my people. So, this was quite emotional for me – both because of some shame about my lack of ability (and desire, I’ve been realizing) to cook and the way the kitchen brings us together. I look forward to continuing work on this poem… For now, though:
En La Cocina
the kitchen taunts me,
the ladles, the pans, the pots.
I refuse to tell a story,
listen to a story
while the water scolds me
while the sauce splatters me
while seasonings spit at me
“What does the recipe SAY?”
“How many minutes?”
“What’s a simmer?”
but las mujeres.
Mi abuela y mi tía y mi mami –
love and heal and pass wisdom
through the searing heat of caldo de pollo
in the warmth of tacos de papa con huevo
es un baile en la cocina
for the women
while the water listens to mi abuela
while the sauce submits to mi tía
while the seasonings seek to be cared for
by mi mami
the way I, too, listen and submit and seek
to be cared for
and loved
and held
and healed
by the ancestral wisdom
that holds us together
en la cocina
you just bring it home in the warmest sense with the last two stanzas. from taunting to healing, all in the kitchen. you start with a delicate shame and turn it into something deliciously warm.
I love this, Britt! My favorite line is, “es in baile en la cocina.” Your poem is a lovely tribute to family and food.
Thank you for guiding me to the translation. <3
Britt, what a gorgeous poem! It made me warm and hungry at the same time. Beautiful use of words and imagery.
Britt, this poem touched me on many levels.
Love, healing, wisdom. You captured the big three of the kitchen. Bravo, and thank you.
The coziness! I love your poem. It pulls me through the screen and right to Mexico with you!
Ditto what John said. I hadn’t noticed in my first reading of that transition he points out–from taunting to healing. So glad you can be with the family and friends this week.
Britt – Because I am currently totally immersed in trying to learn Español, I was pulled right into your poem. I adore the melody of each word in español… y palabras de cocina son muy fantásticas. ¡Me encanta la palabra “ refrigerador “! So, your poem just became un placer para mi. Estoy demasiado poco pero lo estoy intentando. ? ¡Gracias por tu poema! Susie
From an airport waiting for a delayed flight. Awesome prompt, John
Avoiding the Mess
I am not a neat freak
except when I cook.
I use a knife,
I clean it.
I use a cutting board,
I clean it.
I use a measuring cup,
I clean it.
No mess accumulating here.
Every wrapper and package
gets thrown away
the second I open it.
I chop chop and add
then open and add
then sauté and add.
Sequentially,
I grab and add.
Routine.
Expected.
No deviations.
Follow the recipe.
Do things in sensible order.
Leaving no mess.
Just like my life.…
Very few departures
from the routine,
cleaning as I go,
taking care of
the little things
so they don’t become
a big mess.
Things may lack a little flavor
but the kitchen is pristine.
~Susan Ahlbrand
19 March 2022
your punctuation mirrored the message so well. I love your confidence in capturing this compulsion. The food tastes better when you’ve kept up with the cleaning.
Hi Susan. I hope the flight works out! Your poem makes me jealous. I always want to be better at cleaning when I cook, but your last stanza made me wonder if it’s okay to leave things a little messy.
Susan, love the metaphor here. Beautiful!
Oh SUSAN! As a rule, I don’t read others’ poems before I write my own (or their brilliance would darken my will to even TRY). But when I read your glorious piece I wished I’d read yours and had written a reply of what a slob I am in the kitchen! I love a poem that invites me into conversation! Loved it!
Susan – this is fascinating… honest and clear … even the crisp, short lines mirror the clean cut lines of poetry against that regimented kitchen. It made me smile. Insightful. Susie
Susan,
I am going to share this poem with my husband, who has quite the opposite habit in the kitchen when he cooks! I love the metaphor between your work in the kitchen and your life outside. Beautiful.
We celebrated my grandson’s first birthday today. It’s been a hectic day. THis is what I have for now, although it doesn’t feel quite finished.
Little Logan
By Mo Daley 3/19/22
A beautiful boy’s first birthday bash
Gives me pause to wonder who he’ll be
I can already see
The perfectionist tendencies from his mom
The easy-going sensitivity from his dad
His brother’s big-bellied laugh
His Grandma’s resilience
His Papo’s generous heart
His Mamo’s love of literature
He will marinate in the love of family
What an excellent gift you’ll be able to share with your grandson some day. The family recipe, all the ingredients that make him who he is.
“marinate in the love of family”
This line gave me tingles. Family and food and kitchens and love are all one in the same in my familia. Thank you for sharing, and happy first birthday!
Oh, Mo, I loved how you so subtly used the cooking theme in your final line. I love the metaphor of marinating/becoming; marinade/family.
I’ve never done anything like this before, but I’m nostalgically inspired by this prompt!
My Favorite Dinner
I barely remember the last time I had clam chowder,
the kind Mom made,
without dill,
extra Yukon surprises buried
in the mysterious pool of simmering delight.
Dad opened the canned clams himself,
draining suspicious brine into the sink.
I was always absent for that part,
planted at the kitchen table,
chopping onions into iridescent specks
until he said:
“That’s quite small enough,”
and took away the knife.
Then I would stand aside and watch
the wooden spoon used for soups and spankings,
angled against Mom’s palm,
as she spun it in patterned rings.
She put everything together,
I clutched the pink, rubber ladle,
and Dad would retire to his plush recliner
joining my three brothers in the lounge
(a word that makes the cluttered space sound
much fancier than it was).
I don’t think I can recall the bubbling smell,
but I can feel the richness of it
singeing my tongue and throat
whenever I sip cold water
to quell my impossible appetite
for the soup Mom made so long ago,
way back in 2009.
what palpable nostalgia. I chuckled at “suspicious brine” and smiled widely as you described the cluttered space. This is a richly tempting poem.
Suspicious brine and bubbling smell. What more could you ask for? What beautiful nostalgia!
Rachael, this was a lovely memory. Your use of detail really put me right there. Beautiful job.
Oh, my word. Rachael, line after line brings me an excruciating closeness:
draining suspicious brine into the sink
chopping onions into iridescent specks…and took away the knife
(MY FAVORITE) the wooden spoon used for soups and spankings,
angled against Mom’s palm
singeing my tongue and throat
whenever I sip cold water
to quell my impossible appetite
So much to love here. Thank you for a beautiful poem.
Rachael — this poem is a powerhouse of nostalgia. It comes in the careful recreation of moments. The details of the onion iridescence and the spoon angled and impossible appetite and suspicious brine.. so evocative! Thanks! Susie
Thank you for the fun prompt!
Sliced bananas
with a sprinkling of sugar
and a splash of milk
was sure to make
any bad day or
slight illness dissipate
Cinnamon crunch muffins
with crumbly tops and
a cake like texture
were how my boys were
told I loved them without words–
disappearing in mere moments
Chicken Alfredo
with creamy, cheesy sauce
and tender chicken and
gemelli pasta–no substitutes–
was the meal of choice after
bad games and tough days
French Vanilla ice cream
with a sprinkle of cinnamon
and a drizzle of wildflower honey
that froze into an intricate lace
could be both a salve on the soul
and an entreaty of affection
For my entire life,
food has been another language
where words that won’t come
can be expressed and heard
through a different vernacular
that would always be understood
I love the idea of food as language. It really is an offering to others and yourself that transcends.
Food as language, amen. I love the structure of your poem with each stanza celebrating a particular dish. Beautiful!
Oh yes, food is a language! I resonate with that idea. I enjoyed hearing about the dishes that are special to your family!
Cara, love the stanzas that each focus on a food and a memory. Your poem made me hungry with its vivid detail!
Cara, I love how your poem exemplifies the power of John’s prompt. YES, food is a language of its own. I’ve never thought of it that way until your poem. <3
Lovely in so many ways! I was salivating at every description, but the last stanza was the most delicious. Thank you for sharing this today, Cara.
Cara,
Food is a language, a love language. I enjoyed reading your poem today.
Cara – I love the idea of food as another “vernacular “… absolutely perfect word and way of looking at your relationship with food! Wonderful! The honey drizzle… lace! Perfect word choices.
Fun prompt, John – and I love the line “Her infancy simmers” – perfect, precious.
Not a lot of mental space today for writing, but I didn’t want to miss out – here’s a little poem about our family’s approach to meals —
separate but together
are our main ingredients
needing a no dairy dish for one
absolutely no meat for another
fish or fowl, please, asks a third
nothing with nuts insists the fourth
watch the salt is one last ask
c’mon, c’mon, let’s celebrate
hodgepodge smorgasbord
lots of dishes to choose from
a marvelous medley meal
separate but together
the tonal shift in here is brilliant. It starts off almost annoyed by the deviating demands and ends with a true sense of community.
Brilliant! I love the way your poem tugs, almost ping pongs me back and forth across a beautifully chaotic meal time.
Oh I do like this! Actually, I’ve struggled with feeling “together” in the face of our family’s various food needs. Your poem really speaks to that in a delightful way! Thank you!
Wow, that’s a challenge! And it sounds like your family pulls it off with grace and creativity.
Adding Spice Makes It Nice
Cooking is a chore
I don’t have anymore
Yes I still cook
Just not by the book
When I was young
My mother was ill
She lay or sat
Most of the day still
Her voice was loud
But, seldom shrill.
“Put the Jello in the fridge
So it can chill.
“Now bring me the recipe book.”
We’d sit on the sofa with the book on my lap
Reviewing the steps before she took her nap
While she was sleeping, it was my job
To set out the ingredients and carefully read
“Can’t waste food by making mistakes
Take your time, measure carefully
Do what it takes. Clean as you go.
Don’t leave a mess. Now leave. I gotta rest.”
Get it done right before she awakes
She taught me how to do it right
If we wanted to eat, it was useless to fight
To fight the temptation to skip a step
But it was okay to add a spice
On Saturdays when I made refrigerator stew
Leftovers weren’t wasted they all came together
Step by step adding liquids or spice
Whatever would make the food taste nice.
And that’s how I learned to teach
When student engagement I wanted to reach
Followed the steps the way I was taught
But adjusting the spices till kids’ attention I’d caught
Like cooking, teaching became less of a chore
But, alas I’m retired. Don’t do that no more.
Yes, I still cook to eat, I’m just not so neat.
This was an epic trip! You make me feel as if these memories are mine.
Thanks, John, and thanks for the prompt. It was fun to consider how I learned to cook and ways those lessons helped me cook up lessons for students with various appetites and tastes for texts.
I LOVE this! I am still smiling after laughing out loud at the end. This is one of those poems that takes me on a life journey with someone, such fun to peek into your past with you. I laughed at the opening “just not by the book” – because that is SO me – but then again, ag the joy in this coming full circle back to that with “just not so neat.” Also me! Although, “clean as you go” was the motto I also grew up with, so that still happens. It seems a bit sad and strained, that relationship, yet, that’s part of adulting, isn’t it? Not all in life is jump rope and popsicles. We gotta learn these ways to survive. But, then, as that adult, making your own way from those lessons learned. Lovely, Anna. And thank you for the picture. I absolutely adore spices! What’s your favorite? I find tarragon a surprisingly overlooked little powerhouse. But curries are my language – they speak for so many cultures.
Bah – I love so many of these, John. Thank you for the great prompt. As per usual, I get the oddest first thought and can’t let go of it, but then I will look forward to being inspired to try different approaches in the future. I’d also LOVE to do this prompt with my students! I’m sure french fries and pizza will take center stage!
Instant Lives
the beauty of the instant pot
is not that anything actually
cooks in an instant
but that I don’t have to
pay attention to it
at all
all that time spent
stirring occasionally
turning frequently
boiling gently
is returned to me
that I might focus my life
on myriad other demands
like the daily wordle
or numbered-something-item list
of brilliantly ridiculous
unmemorable whatevers
on bored panda or
the latest apartment therapy remodel
and when the spittling trail of beeps
intones that my meal is done
I look up from my vapid life
and remark, “Well, that was fast.”
You take such a simple object and capture how much it can mean with pure eloquence. The freedom to take instants and turn them into moments.
Denise, do have a camera in my house!
Thanks for letting me know others “pass the time” doing word games!
Marvelous! I like the way the two simple words “at all” stand alone as a stanza – really giving such great emphasis on all that you gain through using an instant pot. So clever!
I love the specifics you give in your poem (the wordle reference being my favorite). I think these examples make the poem’s narrative a true delight to follow!
So brilliant, Denise! I should invest in practicing (or incorporating?) with the instant pot. One of my big problems with cooking is how I wish I could be doing other things in that moment haha. You’ve hit the nail on the head!
This is a fun prompt, so I’m chewing on my favorite appetizer in m mind as I await a flight to Amsterdam. I hope to eat lots of fabulous food while in Europe.
Roasted Garlic & Brie
Flakey white petals
fold & cluster center
like a fragrant tulip
snuggled tight at night
against a starry sky.
Olive oil puddles &
buoys broken bulbs,
an armada of herbs
floating like little boats
sailing along a sandy shore.
Porous cheesy cliffs
spread along baguettes
nesting tiny winged
allium-sativum await
entry into my maw.
—Glenda Funk
Glenda! Truly decadent… an homage to fromage!
Happy travels, lucky you! Sounds divine! As does your appetizer poem. I really enjoy all the water allusions in the second stanza…puddles, buoys, armada, and more!
This is making me crave some elegant appetizers myself! Wonderful imagery!
You had me with your title. I love the olive oil puddles and floating like little boats! What a tantalizing poem!
Oh, yum! I hope you enjoy all the good stuff in Europe. These lines made my mouth water:
“Porous cheesy cliffs
spread along baguettes”
Enjoy your trip!
Doggone! Glenda! You made me hungry for that garlic roasted to the soft perfection for smearing on crusty bread. Mmmm! I’m wishing you some lip-smacking fine moments at the Dutch tables! You lucky dawg! Hugs, Susie
John — thank you for your prompt and beautiful poem. Just loved this image –“As the dogs lick the crumbs/From the cracks between her toes”
Satisfaction
There’s is just something satisfying
about the slow cooker meal
simmering all day
just something about
pork, pulling off the bone,
just something about
chili generously seasoned
with cayenne pepper, cumin,
and chili powder
just something about
bubbling creamy potato soup
but
sometimes there’s satisfaction
in the home delivery meals
that save my sanity
not necessarily my budget
but convenience is sometimes
necessity.
Tami you capture my daily conundrum with pitch perfect poetry. My mouth was watering throughout the first half of your poem, I even checked my watch to see if it was possible to throw something on the slow cooker before dinner. But then you pull the rug out, and for good reason. The joy of duality! Both can be true!
Oh my, you have whet my appetite here! Such a melodic poem, ode to a slow cooker – “just something about” is a great repetition.
Ha, Tammi! I wrote about the instant pot, and here is the chugging slow cooker. I am down with this! I love nothing more than to walk into the house after that thing has been humming along for the past ten hours. It’s how others remark when they walk into the kitchen when I’m cooking, “That smells so good.” But I can’t smell it because I’m immersed in it. That slow cooker lets me have THAT experience. What’s your favorite SC recipe? Mine is this bomb pork “carnitas” recipe. Walk into that, and your olfactory senses explode! And yet, last night – take out! Ha! And we always say, “I could have made that better.” or “It’s not as good as what we could have made.” But, a night off is nice. Thanks for the fun food chat!
Cooking…Not For Me
I
dislike
being in
the kitchen for
preparing food-stuff.
It’s too time-consuming.
I’m sure it’s a mental thing;
a perception I’ve given life.
Gathering all the ingredients;
Measuring this and mixing that.
The cleanup afterwards…UGH!!
Food and I are friends, though.
I can really eat.
Food just tastes best
when prepared
not by
me.
Donnetta, whether you like it or not, the important thing is you know it! Your poem reminds me of a deep breath. An inhale, exhale. Responding to something you are tired of having to justify. Very cool form.
Thank you so much John. Writing this was a like a deep breath. It felt good to put these words out into the universe.
Donnetta, I have the same reaction to cleaning (though I still do it). The unimportance of it appears even in your term “food-stuff.” I can’t help but see into the shape of your poem, as if a whole were split in two, with the dislike of cooking against the love of food, the rounded shape of eating vs the empty space butting against the solid line of words.
Donetta, thanks for writing a poem the shape of the tip of a spoon, ready to stir our thinking about our cooking! That’s what I love about poetry! The lining makes a difference in how it’s perceived.
I also concur with your closing lines!
Love the visual structure of this – how the lines grow and recede…and the beginning and end being the words “I” and “me.”
The form of your poem is delightfully creative and I agree with John, it does resemble a deep breath, perhaps of relief, longing, or resignation. I appreciate how genuine it is, your authentic thoughts and words present throughout. Wonderful!
I love this and laughed. I hate the kitchen cleanup after I cook but love cleaning the kitchen when someone else has cooked. ?
Love this:
Thank you, John, for this inspirational poem showing so much love between you and your darling daughter and fur babies.
I decided to revisit a poem I wrote in 2016 because when you said you haven’t always had a good relationship with food, I immediately thought about my own food issues I’ve had since I was a little girl. I would like to honor all the little girls who cried over spilled milk at the dinner table. The poem is rough but I think you’ll get the message. It’s like a took that recipe and just threw it all in one bowl to see what would happen. ?
Milk
Glass of milk
stationed
in the middle of the table
No more spills, little girl
Watch your arm when you reach
Too late
too many times
I cried over spilled milk
never within my reach.
Watch my toes, little girl
You stepped on my corn
I wondered
What was corn doing on her toes?
Corn was always good
especially when it counted
as a vegetable
even though it wasn’t.
Eat your food, little girl
Or you won’t be getting up
from the table
where the milk sat
so far, far away
in the middle
like a boat anchored at sea
but it was the milk
I loved more than food.
Chewing porkchops
relentless gnawing
smashing green beans
to get the peas out
that kind of
freaked me
spooked me
little beans
pukey shades of green
Little girl, you better eat that food!
Cleaning my plate
will never happen
mouthfuls scattered the plate as scraps
I couldn’t wash them down and
my milk
was getting
warm.
© Stacey L. Joy, 7/15/16
Milk is dedicated to Mommie…who made me eat all my food, but I never ever did and still NEVER clear my plate!
Stacey! It’s so great you dug up an oldie. Sometimes we just need to clean out that freezer. Finally dredging up something that’s been sitting there for so long can be better than the freshest of meals. You invoke the days of the clean plate club so well. We had to drink two glasses of milk with every meal as kids! Why??? I could taste those pork chops as I devoured your poem.
Stacey,
I love the layers and splatters of this poem, the easy the italics voice Mommie and the way the speaker wonders about the corn and chews chops in present tense with perspective in the tense of freaked and spooked. The common phrase of spilled milk takes on new life with the milk loved and the plate never cleared. I want to know more about the relationship with food and welcome a series of poems on this subject, please!
Sarah
Stacey — Oh, how I remember those days too and my father’s mantra about starving children in Ethiopia. I remember hiding green peppers in my napkin (I always got caught). I love the last stanza:
Cleaning my plate
will never happen
mouthfuls scattered the plate as scraps
I couldn’t wash them down and
my milk
was getting
warm.
I was raised on the clean your plate philosophy of parenting too. Love the dialogue/quotes. We secretly fed food we didn’t like to the dog and hid food under the rim of our plate. And I hardly ever drink milk after being forced to all those years. You really took me back to those days today, my friend. I might need to write another poem.
There’s something about this poem that makes me sad…even though it’s not a sad poem. Must be I’m remembering my childhood. I love the “pukey shades of green.” That’s so like a kid!
Linda, I felt sad when I read it this morning after 6 years since I first wrote it. I was always reprimanded at the table for a variety of things. I have a ton of food issues and peeves I can write forever about. Dig into your food memories. I bet you have some poems waiting to be written. ?
Stacey – What a spot-on clear image you create here! I could hear those voices and cringed at how real they were not only in your memory here but in mine as well. The admonitions of a mom … I can hear it. And the touch of a kid’s wondering at the “corn”… so honest and funny yet real. That milk always sitting there while we poked around at food like icky peas rolling around on the plates of our lives. So many layers there… that milk getting warm. Time at the dinner table wasn’t always peachy. I love how your evokes the youth in you… those little girl perspectives and the way that view stays with you forever. Terrific! Your voice, once again, really took me to the table. Susie
“Dehydration
occurs daily
in 3 out of 4
people,”
claims the
Liquid I.V.
pouch on the
table
before me,
and
I totally agree
if by water
they mean
poetry.
We hardly
ever meet our
daily dose
of 8 poems
prescribed by
our English
teachers, and
some even claim
that this
“requirement”
is a myth, an
old wives’
tale.
Now,
momentarily,
setting aside
the questionable,
objectionable
connotation of
that term for women
of a certain age
who happen
to have advice
to offer,
I maintain we
must (and should)
continue this
practice of
ingesting (at least)
8 poems of
cool liquid
language
a day,
and though
I am an English
teacher
who may,
granted,
be a bit biased,
and who “technically”
is not “allowed”
to prescribe “medicine,”
in the state of Michigan
(or any other, I’ve
been told), I believe
it is imperative
for sound mind
(and body) to
continue this
literary
regimen.
________________________________________
Thank you, John, for your mentor poem today. I love the alliteration throughout – “globs” and “gobbled,” “crumbs” and “cracks,” and “simmers” and “steam.” I was thinking of your “ingredients” prompt while eating breakfast this morning when I stumbled upon the quote that started my poem.
this is phenomenal! I love that you took something so mundane and just ran. And it looks like it would fit perfectly formatted on the side of a cereal box. Your swift transition from water to poetry (and both are life sustaining!) GRABBED me by the wrist and dragged me down the swift current of your poem.
Scott,
At first I thought you were going to explore dehydration of teachers and potential kidney malfunction after years of “holding it,” but then how delightful for poetry to be the hydrator and for poetry to be the medicine. Indeed, I do believe reading more poetry would lead to wellbeing…a required regimen!
Scott — I love the idea of poetry as a prescription to well being! I really believe this truth!
Loved the ending of your poem:
technically”
is not “allowed”
to prescribe “medicine,”
in the state of Michigan
(or any other, I’ve
been told), I believe
it is imperative
for sound mind
(and body) to
continue this
literary
regimen.
Wow, Scott, I was hoping for affirmation on my dehydration issues as a teacher. I am conscientiously attempting to rectify the horrible thing we do to our bodies. But it’s even better that this was not about me and my unhappy kidneys but about the need to consume poetry! I absolutely adore:
The way that rolls off my tongue…gorgeous! I wish for the time to follow your “literary regimen.”
❣️
Scott loved the structure and pace of your poem — plus, its cheekiness made me smile. Beautiful job!
Oh yes, my eldest sister and I have a real need for this regimen. I love that you use the “liquid IV” and the “daily dose” and “regimen “ and the reality that it’s a healing medicine to have the written words of poetry run through our vessels. I love the sense that poetry is like an essential nourishment. Cool poem! The images are exciting. Thanks! Susie
Thank you for this prompt. It’s March, so I’ve been baking my mother’s Irish soda bread. This gave me the chance to write about the experience.
Irish Soda Bread
Little puffs of flour
Rise up and coat my arms
As I stir with my fingers
Dispersing baking powder
And baking powder soda
Throughout the dry mix.
Add raisins and stir.
Whisk two eggs with buttermilk,
Or with sour cream,
Or with some sour cream and some buttermilk.
Whatever you have.
As I stir and form a loaf,
Carefully cutting a cross into the top,
Memories wash in
Of long conversations
Round the kitchen table
With slices of raisin bread
Slathered with butter
Tea kettle singing.
“Have another slice, there’s plenty more.”
Sunday afternoons,
Friday nights after the dances,
A snack before homework after school.
Imprecise as it is,
The handed-down recipe
Yields the same results
Every time
Just as it did in Mom’s kitchen,
And in her mom’s kitchen before her,
Baked over a peat fire in the hearth
Of a whitewashed cottage with a thatched roof
Long ago.
You turn this simple, time-honored process into a meditation on tradition. Beautiful. When my wife was pregnant (during the height of COVID) one of the only things she could stomach was Irish soda bread. Her dad would drop a fresh batch off on our doorstep every two days.
Kati,
I am with you in the kitchen listening to the tea kettle sing, eyeing my turn to slather another slice with butter.
Thank you
Katighe,
I loved all the beautiful memories conveyed in these lines “Little puffs of flour/Rise up and coat my arms” and “As I stir and form a loaf,/Carefully cutting a cross into the top,/Memories wash in/Of long conversations.
Cheers to soda bread, and the way food connects us across time and place! I love your poem and the concept!
Katighe- You create such a clear sense of why I love to be in the kitchen, why I love to bake… it always takes me to another time with those we love… you capture the power of that creative force. My favorite moment of slicing that dough at the top… that sensory cut of the cross in soda bread…. Aah, this is a great poem. One to take a bite out of. Thanks! Susie
John, thank you for your prompt today and allowing us to consider the connections of food metaphors. Your line “soft custard of existence,” was my inspiration for writing today.
life a la carte
spice is half a cup
full, affirming
a quarter scoop of chaos
large dash of laughter
basted in connections
marinating lessons to rise
above overcooked,
seared moments
to steep learning
whisk in humanized
ingredients
Stefani, a thoughtful multi-course meal – a full round of cooking K.O.’s! “Seared moments” was my personal favorite. At first I thought the connotation negative, but then I found myself thinking of all the excellent moments that have seared themselves into my memory.
Stefani,
I enjoyed reading this several times as and without enjambment to cup/full was lovely and the ingredients measurements and treatments are just the sort of ways of knowing we must embrace. Love the “whisk in humanized.” So good.
Sarah
Stefani — your painting of “life a la carte” was so perfect. It really is a mix of “spice” and “chaos”. All your metaphors were so well chosen “Steep learning” and “humanized ingredients” — so perfect and true!
Stefani,
Soooo much to savor here! This poem is beauty from start to finish.
My class just did some fun activities with Stacey Abram’s picture book (Stacey’s Extraordinary Words), and one of her words was whisk. I love how you used it here in your poem.
Stefani – I absolutely love your verbs and can just feel the truth in your poem. This is a poem to hang up on the wall! Thanks! Susie
This poem topic made me think about how writing and cooking are similar to me—I WANT to want to cook, but it doesn’t fulfill me like it could. I feel like my creativity in the kitchen holds me back. Much the same with my writing. I think I was taught there was a right and wrong way to write, and I’m having to overcome that belief. I want to feel freedom in words. Thanks for giving me the inspiration to put my feelings to paper!
Unexceptional
Kitchen creations and poem building
hold me hostage.
Where are my ideas?
my creativity?
my imagination?
I crave a gourmet tale,
a gripping dinner.
If only my search for
meals
and groceries
and synonyms
didn’t take so long.
If only my library of recipes
wasn’t so inadequate.
Someone just tell me what to make.
I feel a well of want and words
bubbling up within me,
bursting to be put to paper.
It just doesn’t sound right.
It could be better.
It’s all wrong.
Someone just tell me what to write.
I’m so happy this inspiration connected with you. I, too, have grappled with right and wrong in writing, but am beginning to enjoy the process more than ever now. You balance the worlds or words and food very well, and I think this poem would please any palate.
Carriann, I can express the same sentiments with me and cooking. I LOVE LOVE LOVE to eat, but I do not like cooking. This line, “If only my search for meals and groceries and synonyms didn’t take so long.” The first part was me. I was so tired after grocery shopping and putting them away that I didn’t feel like cooking/making anything. And I also have a collection of recipes…saved on Facebook. Yeah….I finally made the “Egg in a hole” toast in my air fryer. It was really good!
On the other hand, writing is my passion. As a freebie for you, I’d like to recommend two books to help you with your writing:The Synonym Finder by J. I. Rodale and …As One Mad with Wine and Other Similes.
“Someone just tell me what the write.” I feel the same way with adulting!
I forgot to write the author’s name for the similies: Elyse and Mike Sommer.
Oh, I just love the honesty of this poem! I often feel exactly the same way — in both my kitchen and at my desk. “It just doesn’t sound right. It could be better. It’s all wrong.” Yep — I hear you. And yet, you’ve expressed it exactly right.
Carriann, thank you for sharing your poem and how you feel this “hostage” experience in the kitchen paralleled in writing.
Carriann,
This is a fabulous commentary on how writing like cooking is in the doing, how it becomes something with each word, mark, ingredient because we/you made it become. That in writing, we are the someone telling us what to write, that it was always within us simmering. Love that John’s inspiration offer another ingredient for you/us today.
Sarah
Carriann — I can totally relate! I often have that feeling of anxiety compounded with a fear of failure as well.
These lines resonated with me:
“I feel a well of want and words
bubbling up within me,
bursting to be put to paper.
It just doesn’t sound right.
It could be better.
It’s all wrong.”
Carriann, Welcome to the kitchen! This is a poetry culinary school and we’re all students learning together. As we cooking, we learn to do it by cooking, we’re learning to write by writing. Thankfully, we have some chefs among us willing to share their craft. For now, being a sous chef means you’ll be working with a pro! You’ll soon be one yourself!
What a perfect opening and so relevant to me. I honestly could’ve copied the whole poem to share what I loved most.
Searching for groceries and synoynms! YESSS!
Thank you for this prompt. I drifted away from ingredients and cooking methods towards thinking about my thankfulness for the space of the kitchen itself.
Kitchen Benediction
For this place within our house,
Source of heat and running water,
Means to keep and preserve,
I thank thee, Lord.
For this place within my mind,
Regular necessity of task and purpose,
Providing space from the torrent of the day,
I thank thee, Lord.
For this murky well within my heart,
Connections with my past through recipe,
Forward through my daughter’s attempts and creativity,
I thank thee, Lord.
For Saint Brigid’s cross upon this our hearth,
Here mingle our temptations, sinful habits,
With that which sustains are bodies and our souls,
For this, I thank thee, Lord.
While you drifted you did not stray from the concept of gratitude, which was an essential ingredient! Amen to what sustains us…
Emily,
The necessities, connections, and temptations you connect through this benediction are powerful and tasty.
Emily,
I just read an article about St. Brigid from the NYT. My godmother sent me a page from the actual print newspaper, and I thought how beautiful the story of her. Thank you for this beautiful poem of place, faith, and gratitude.
Sarah
Emily — Thank you for your beautiful poem. It poem reminds of coming home to family and the power of place.
Emily,
What a lovely blessing for a most necessary and wonderful part of your house. 🙂
I’m looking at my kitchen a little differently now after reading this. Thank you for writing this today, Emily!
Emily,
I loved the gratitude in your poem. I need to remember to be thankful for my kitchen instead of frustrated by it. Thank you for sharing today.
[John– I loved this prompt and sure had fun with it. Thank you, Susie]
Friday Night with Chocolate Mousse
Last night I slathered myself
in chocolate,
up to my elbows
in that stout brown
confection, steeped
in Kahlua and espresso;
deep dark Valrhona Bittersweet
slowly melting
over the bain-marie,
we were starting
to sweat
for the sugar
and jasmine yellow yolks
coming next,
for the waft of vanilla rising
from the spoon,
then the amalgam
of cream and peaking whites and the loamy syrup,
folding in on each other carefully
to sustain the lift
that was the perfect mousse;
daring to break
all protocols,
I slipped
two fingers
into the manna
and slid them over my bottom lip,
tasting what was surely
sacred.
by Susie Morice, March 19, 2022©
Absolutely glorious, Susie! So visual, so utterly compelling – just for a second I thought you might be at a spa for one of those indulgent chocolate body treatments – but then I became absorbed by the great care going into creating this mousse (hmmmm…writing analogy here). Love love love this ending and I would have had to taste it, too.
This poem verges on the sensual in its depiction of indulgence – and I mean that with complete positivity. My mind was flooded with the warmth of your words, and the scent of your description.
Susie! This is sexy and innocent as well as indulgent and evocative. You almost made me believe I would enjoy partaking in some chocolate mousse!
Delicious poetry!??
Susie–take me with you. sensual and delicious and sumptuous! Not sure why, but these lines are my favorite:
“for the waft of vanilla rising
from the spoon,”
Susie, this is great! This is what I wanted to write about, but I went a totally different direction. Your descriptions of chocolate mousse, “we were starting
to sweat for the sugar and jasmine yellow yolks coming next,” screams addiction to chocolate. My guilty pleasure is Fudge grahams and chocolate covered almonds. You took me to Heaven and back! Thank you for sharing!
Oh, Susie! I wasn’t sure which way this was going to go (every way with you would have been good). And I’m always up for chocolate, especially when it’s so carefully crafted with the very best of ingredients and love.
Susie, So Good! Totally agree with everyone here: your vivid details were so evocative and sensual from the “slather[ing]” to the “daring to break / all protocols” to the “slipp[ing]” of “two fingers”…ahem, you get the idea, you crafted this after all, lol. So, so good!
So decadent and sexy, Susie. Sustain the lift…two fingers…geesh, you have me blushing over here in Stillwater.
Susie, this is fun and a lot decadent in a duality of ways, you naughty girl, master of subtexts and the unsaid. I love it. There should be a rule requiring one to dip the fingers into the mousse.
YUM! I’m available to help for the next batch. I was with you for every detail and now I want chocolate.Love all the sensual descriptions up to elbows, two fingers into the manna, tasting…Yes, sacred!
Thank you, John, for your inspiration and for introducing me to Marianne Chan. I have borrowed heavily from her poem.
Here, coffee comes from foiled bags
that smell like Rogers Park lake waves
and Champaign study carrels and
summer school in Sevilla and twenty-
four months of quarantine.
I swim with coffee bathing in
silt shadows until an appetite for
living stirs. I don’t recognize the words
that flow from my fingers. Their letters
like branches reaching through
fog. Tell us a story, they say.
Tell us a story. And as I pull myself
from the clay spaces where I studied
others words–oh, the books
which fortified me– I grasp your
gnarled hands. I am a fraud, am
no bluestocking, no cognoscenti. I
know nothing for sure, no word
belongs to me. I am a lush. I drank
all the coffee from the pot
from the bag from which I came.
This poem is special. It captures the idea of channeling life (even if unconsciously) with such raw reality. My favorite image “I swim with coffee bathing in silt shadows until an appetite for living stirs” – vessels, vessels, vessels.
I have re-read this three times now, and find new things to love each time– “oh, the books
which fortified me”…and the end of the poem–exudes so many feelings for me….
“I drank
all the coffee from the pot
from the bag from which I came.”
The layers of meaning there (I am a coffee lush, as well) are so powerful…
Sarah, your imagery of words and letters reaching through the fog is beautiful and enlightening…allowing us to write sometimes without fully knowing what or why.
John–I just earned my first grandchild. your last stanza resonated with me!! Beautiful!
“Her infancy simmers
Steam rising in the air
Soft custard of existence”
Thanks for a great prompt and a wonderful slice-of-life poem!
Ingredients
I wanted a little more happiness
so I went to the local joy store
to find something new.
The shelves were lined
with so many options,
I couldn’t choose.
So I gave up,
drove back home,
and hugged my dog.
I already had everything I needed.
GJ Sands 3-19-22
Gayle, what a sweet poem! I love the concept of going to a joy store. Your end is endearing! Loved it!
Congratulations, Gayle, and loved this message and your single last line that packed a punch. 🙂
Gayle — This was just pure sugar… I loved how sweet this was. All those options…and having it all right there at home….aah… lovely! Susie
What a celebration of life! An embrace of the process. The act of going and searching, only to be reminded that you need nothing. There’s supreme wisdom in this poem.
Gayle, short and sweet, yet so full! I have a few local joy stores, but I always end up with more debited than I should. “I already had everything I needed.” I think we can all agree that we do. Thank you for sharing!
Gayle, we need more joy stores in our lives. But I love that you chose the joy of your dog over all of it. This says a lot about the seeking of happiness and our abundance.
Gayle, a good dog hug feeds the soul. I love the rhyme and cadence in your poem.
Thanks, John, for this very cool prompt. Loved the imagery in your poem and loved the freedom of it, which is something that I struggle with — appreciating and using freedom of form in my own creation(s):
Grasp the thing, the words will follow:
For me, a recipe for disaster. In effect,
I become a puddle of uncertainty:
How much is too much? Too little?
Wasted money, wasted time
always left me feeling unsatisfied.
In both food and art –which always satisfied –
I needed direction to follow,
constraints of structure, of time
and pictures to illustrate effect –
confidence too little
and process fraught with uncertainty.
Until a risk with play – certainly
born of mistake – resulted in customers, satisfied:
Shocked, I dabbled in freedom a little
but chaos, when left fallow,
is rendered ineffectual
and leans again on structure, time
to cage and guide it. So, this time,
here I am: Back to six lines, to cookbooks, to certainty:
Sometimes, a nice effect
that finds diners satisfied.
But sometimes, sometimes – all this following –
these constraints – they chafe a little.
Wendy, your ending resonates with me. I like how the constraints physically and mentally chafe. Sometimes you follow the directions and things still do not come out quite right. I much prefer dabbling, but understand the end is not always the result I wanted. Awesome poem!
Constraints DO chafe, and more than a little. What a great analogy between a recipe and writing a poem – for sometimes the words DON’T fit in a form and yet, at other times, form invites the words. How well you address risk involved with creativity! So much truth in your brave poem. 🙂
Wendy, I struggle with structure and probably rely too much on freedom! The punctuation in your poem made me think of all the chops and slices that go into a dish. Watching all of the mechanical work, and then I read through and see this beautiful dish at the end.
Your puddle of uncertainty has great depth.
John, what a fun prompt. I have to travel today, but wanted to capture the chaos that you will find when I’m cooking.
Barb’s in the Kitchen
one pan slam; sizzle
flour explodes, eggs roll, some-
thing’s burning; dinner?
19 March 2022
Barb,
This made me laugh out loud. Loved the structure of it, the initial assonance, the arresting onomatopoeia, and the play on words! Great poem. 🙂
Hi, Barb — You made me laugh out loud. I can hear that “pan” “slam” and “sizzle”… so much sound and movement in such a tiny poem. I’m seeing you with an apron on. 🙂 Hugs, Susie
Barb. Brief but barbaric! I can’t remember the last time I sat down for dinner, and these explosive images put me in that place instantly.
Oh, gracious – your chaos in the kitchen makes for wonderful poem-fodder, Barb! I can hear it, see, and smell it all – yikes! Such a fun read.
Barb, love it! The sounds, the chaos, the motion – in so few words. I can relate! The placement of the question mark at the end lets us wonder if you’re going to just go with it or do take out or even if it can even be dinner after all.
Barb, the burning of dinner rolls is a tradition here, smoke alarm included. I’m with you, friend.
Barb, I bet you don’t burn dinner that often. Fun poem. Don’t start a fire!
Barb— I can HEAR this. So NOT a soothing nature haiku. I love this!
John, I was moved by the mentor poem. And your poem has such vivid imagery. The phrases “soft spittle drip”, “Cheeks as plump as Santa’s gut”, and “Her infancy simmers” are a few of my favorites. Thank you for sharing. I was so excited about this prompt because I love food! But then, I went another route. After my day yesterday, I had to release. I feel much better today, I will definitely eat!
Ingredients for a Disaster
I went grocery shopping yesterday,
Went rogue without a plan, just go down every aisle I say.
Fought with my son who strayed away,
While my daughter tried to pitch artichoke, you just cut and steam Mommy, K?
Bought fiber-rich foods and snuck in my favorite sinful sweet,
Disappointed at the cracker aisle, no salted tops, only whole wheat.
Ran into a fellow teacher, retired but bored at their small space,
After a pleasant conversation, I sent well wishes to his wife, whose heart now beats at a safe pace.
Wheeled to the check-out line, looking for a person,
No way I’m unloading all this stuff, (which I know is $300+) with an attitude that will worsen.
The cashier was cordial and cheerful,
So the sting from my wallet was softened by her earful.
Left the store, loaded the SUV, even arranged all the shopping carts in the Silver Corral.
I took my time on the way home, meandering through the roundabouts, with no rationale.
Finally made it home, with food for a small village,
In which my family of four, in less than a week, will pillage.
After finally pulling out the leftover soup and cornbread for my kids,
It’s getting late, so dessert is non-negotiable, not taking any bids.
With nothing left for me, I look at all the variety.
Overwhelmed by all of the choices, the feeling is anxiety.
Looking at pots and pans and peeking in cabinets, trying to find the perfect marriage of seasonings, no MSG.
I finally decide on what to eat,
Nothing, with a feeling of defeat.
Jessica,
“…you just cut and steam Mommy, K?” Loved.
This: “After a pleasant conversation, I sent well wishes to his wife, whose heart now beats at a safe pace.” Loved the ambiguity of it and the suggestion…
Related to: “With nothing left for me, I look at all the variety.
Overwhelmed by all of the choices, the feeling is anxiety.”
And your last line.
Plus, you accomplished it in rhymed couplets that flowed so naturally that I didn’t even notice them until about halfway through. This was great! 🙂
Thank you Wendy! My day yesterday was quite eventful and as much as I could’ve complained, there were sprinkles of gratefulness on top. And yes! I wasn’t really trying to rhyme. The line that begins “Looking at pots and pans…” was actually my first line, but I didn’t want to trash it. By the time I got toward the end, I found out it made a perfect fit there! Thank you again!
Jessica, I so enjoyed the narrative of your poem which is completely relatable. I think it’s amazing how I can have plenty of food but feel like there is nothing to eat. I loved how your poem flowed like an adventure. Loved the phrase “perfect marriage of seasonings”..yes!
Thank you Barb! It seems like not knowing what to eat is the story of my life! I am a fan of rhyming, but I have found myself drawn to narratives. So, I decided to combine the two. Thank you for your compliments!
I’m sorry your day called for release, but not sorry about the release because this is great! You capture the stress of grocery shopping with tenderly sly humor. You turn this small and tedious experience into something big and beautiful.
Thank you John! It made me smile while re-reading it because I was able to find some joy in my chaotic day. Interesting story: I normally do grocery pick up because it’s more convenient because of my two children. And, I normally go to a smaller grocery store. I was very close to this big store and didn’t want to go out of my way. When I left the store, I took the long way home anyway. Well, after I got home from my adventure, I checked Facebook. There was a high-speed chase on one of the main avenues in my town and at some point I would’ve crossed over it. The travel time between the two stores is about 10 minutes. If I would’ve gone to the other store, it would’ve been highly likely that I would have been in the midst of all that chaos! Counting my blessings!
This made me tired just reading it!
I love that you wrote about grocery shopping! My favorite lines:
I finally decide on what to eat,
Nothing, with a feeling of defeat.
So true.
John, great to read a fellow AQ student! One of my teaching partners is taking classes in education there now. Having had two labradors with two children, your poem could have been mine. You’ve beautifully captured those moments of sharing food. I can remember mine dropping cheerios over the edge of the high chair just for entertainment.
First Bite
the meadow is a midnight birth.
when ground unfrosts,
leaking,
seeping,
into loam,
a scattering of seeds
take root
You have some absolutely stunning images here. You’ve turned spring into a meal in in itself – I can truly taste it. And the cleansing of the loam! Just wow… powerful.
My daughter does the exact same with the cheerios!
Jennifer, your poem is absolutely gorgeous. I like the way you kept the action verbs on separate lines and the last part “take root” is perfectly placed. Very powerful and a great poem for this season. Beautiful!
Jennifer — This is beautiful. That “midnight birth” — oh yeah! The “unfrost[ing]” — oh yeah! “Loam” is a great word (we were on the same page this morning with that word). You made me feel like springtime was blowing in the screen door. Thanks! Susie
Whoa, Jennifer! So much power in these lines and phrases. I am imagining a tiny seed taking its first bite of soil nutrients and offering back a root. It’s miraculous.
Jennifer, I love this celebration of growing good. It reminds me of Braiding Sweetgrass. Wonderful. You are so gifted.
What beautiful language! “meadow is a midnight birth.”
Love love love! That first line is my favorite.
John, what a thought provoking prompt! Thank you for hosting us and inspiring us to think about writing like a chef thinks about cooking and draw the comparisons. The poem you write is precious – a feast for both the baby and the dogs! Dinner and a bath all at once for your sweet little girl. I married a 16-year bachelor after his divorce, three years after mine. The man still prefers to go out to eat meals, despite my best efforts in the kitchen……so here’s my Haiku take today:
Writing: much like lunch
out~ where to go, what to eat?
I need a spinner.
A very fun take on the food-writing connection, Kim. And very real one: where to go? what am I in the mood for? Wouldn’t a spinner help decide?? Choices can be overwhelming and numbing, even when you know you’ve gotta eat every day and when you’re trying to write, especially in striving to maintain some routine. My husband and I eat out a lot more than we used to and I am grateful for it. I’ll take take-out any time!
What a tasty snack of a poem! I’m thankful for forums like this that provide the spinner! I love eating out so so much, but there is definitely choice paralysis at times. And the options dwindle with a toddler…
Kim, a the joy of having a variety of choices to eat…here, not so much! Very fun poem!
Kim, this is a fabulous metaphor! Writing is like ordering from a menu: so many options. How to make the best choice?
We all need a spinner. I like that you did a haiku! It’s one of my go-to styles too.
John: Such a fascinating approach to a poem. Your images are so vibrant, real, alive, and shimmering with light … your baby’s round cheeks, those unexpected chihuahuas-! It is a bright gem of a poem. Thank you for this today.
Not cray about my current title, but here goes:
Daily Writing Staple
An idea forms
inside my brain
like an egg forms
within a bird
one moment
nothing
and the next
the shell
of something
I feel its new presence
and I know
there’s fragile life
stirring
or at least
a provisional sac
of nourishment
to build and
sustain life
deep inside
living membrane
until it should hatch
and eventually fly
on wings of its own
or
like my breakfast egg
boiled for long enough
at the right temperature
the idea solidifies
and gives life
to me
one simple ingredient
containing a whole world
of possibility
and I almost never settle
for just one.
The shell concept is fascinating, I think … and the breakfast egg …
Kevin
You should be cray about your title! Just like in writing, we have staples in our diet, and even if they become boring, they help us in so many ways!
What a lovely, complex extended metaphor. I don’t think I’ve ever been so affected by the word “sac.” The idea of never settling is something I will probably spend the rest of the day forming my own egg on. I love the abrupt and bold “or” – A brave display indecision.
Fran, I’m crazy about your title and your poem today. The metaphor here is so you – your fascination with birds and with words. The little fluttering, stirring of life and living, hatching, spreading wings and taking flight. It is you to the core. We love eggs here, too, when we eat at home. This is fabulous!
Fran, loved this metaphor and could very much relate to the feelings in this piece. 🙂
Fran, I love your second stanza and how you carry the “egg” metaphor throughout this poem! “one simple ingredient/containing a whole world/of possibility”….now that is a mind-blowing stanza. Provocative poem!
Fran — This is terrific..the metaphor of the egg and idea, of course! Those writing seeds, I love that. And I really love the end lines…not settling for just one… that’s me for sure… your poem really resonates with me this morning. Thank you! Susie
Fran, that fragile life stirring is exactly what it feels like – maybe it will make it and maybe it won’t, but it’s there, that shell harboring possibility, as elusive as it is.
“one simple ingredient / containing a whole world” — I love the imagery here. The metaphor of an egg as an idea germinating is so true.
Fran, I read your poem after reading Kim’s and Jennifer’s. They read as companion pieces. I live the growth metaphor, the idea of hatching ideas.
Wonderful description of an idea! love the parallel growth of the egg…giving life.
Good Morning, friends.
Joh, this is such a fun prompt. I love how your daughter is custard in her stage of life and how the dogs have a good relationship with her toes. LOL! I make food in lots of ways…so my memory needed to settle down on one way. My time in Greece is always a favorite memory…which is where the first four stanzas of my draft come from.
One photo album of memories
Athens – late winter
just before Paska*
when horta** grows best
on the shady side
of Pendeli.
One bursting bag of spinach
from the laiiki*** before
it’s busy full of Kyrias****
in their black skirts
and running shoes.
One onion from
same laiiki.
Olive oil from the drum
kept behind the calico
curtain, under the sink,
pressed in Uncle Dimitri’s grove.
*Easter
**garden greens such as spinach
***farmers market
****widows
I am there with you, Linda. I can see the market, the throng; I can smell the spinach and onion. I taste the olive oil – moreover, it makes me long to really be there. So, so rich, every single line. And I love learning words in other languages – you handled this superbly.
I love how these lines linger in the middle, all alone … it’s like a pause in the poem.
“One onion from
same laiiki”
Kevin
I love the idea of memory settling – almost like a souffle. And just like a souffle, you appear to have taken this poem out of the oven at the exact right time. I love that you clarified the terms that you anticipated might not be understood by your audience (you were correct with me!), but there was also a beauty in the not knowing.
Confronting the poem with the unknowns, was great because it was like the experience of real travel – being overwhelmed with newness. The Grecian streets you invoked so perfectly, being hit with all of these senses, then looking down later at my guidebook to find out what I was seeing and hearing and touching and tasting.
I missed my honeymoon due to COVID, so it was nice to get an experience that felt like true travel.
WOW, Linda! My blog theme this month is travel, and your time in Greece AND cooking fresh foods grown on the shady side of Pendeli has me longing for a trip there. I’ve never been to Greece. I’m wondering about the olive oil kept behind the calico curtain under the sink – – twice hidden from seeking eyes. Only available to those who know. It’s very mysterious, and it draws me in and makes me wonder not only about the preciousness of what it means to family, but about Uncle Dimitri and whether he has a secret process for making his olive oil that he keeps guarded from anyone else to keep his masterpiece uncopied. Your use of language is superb.
Linda, love the imagery and the emotion in this piece! I come from a large Polish family who enjoyed the traditions and suggestions of heritage and family entailed by our food, so this really resonated with me!
Linda — Your poem was a really cool adventure this morning … I loves learning the new words and the Greek-ness of it was just dandy.
This stanza really pulled at me (widows!… wow):
One bursting bag of spinach
from the laiiki*** before
it’s busy full of Kyrias****
in their black skirts
and running shoes.
I’d have loved going to Greece with you…and your poem did that for me… that’s really something. Thank you! Susie
Linda, one of my all-time favorite meals was in Greece. This is a lovely reminder of good Mediterranean food. I’m longing to go back and nourish my soul and tummy.
Linda, the feel of the oil storing drum is palpable in my hands, as if I were lifting it to prepare food. What beautiful sensory details you’ve given us today. Makes my feet yearn to enter the laiiki!
I suspect some chef,
and it might have been me,
left out the means
for a poem last night
Measuring cups
Metallic tines
Dusted ideas
Scribbled lines
Every story’s been baked,
then broken to a piece;
A writer, chewing on ideas
of morning’s poetry
Kevin
A bit of writing intentionality, and then not…the means always there at hand for the making. I especially like this image of stories having been baked and then broken to a piece for the chewing…that is EXACTLY how it is. Cyclical, ongoing, new bits from old…
I love the idea of unidentified inspiration! It reminds me of coming back to my work from earlier and just not having a single clue what to do with it. The “I definitely knew what this meant at the time…” confusion, but working through it and finding what you can work with.
And sometimes earlier is only the night before. Writing, as you seem to say here, is about setting an intention and returning to it enough that something finally forms.
Kevin, the means of a poem having been left out last night (and not claiming responsibility for the leaving out of it all) drew me right in – – that’s my kitchen on weekday nights if we eat at home because we are too tired to go out, and then too tired to completely clean up. The forks, the measuring cups – the thoughts, the ideas – all sifted together – ingredients as life, ideas to bake like chocolate chips right into muffin poems.
Kevin, love the elegance of this piece: the casualness of the second line that made me smile, the listed imagery of the second stanza, the insight of the final stanza. Very cool.
Kevin — Your weaving of the cooking and writing… I loved “chewing” on the whole poem idea here. The writer/the chef…aah yes! Lovely. You are so darned good at this! Susie
WIWI (This is the compliment I give to my students on rare occasions. It’s my highest praise for original thought and expression: “Wish I’d Written It.”) Beautiful.