Our host
Stacey Joy is a National Board Certified Teacher, Google Certified Educator, and 2013 L.A. County Teacher of the Year. Stacey has taught elementary school for 38 years in Los Angeles Unified School District. Currently, she teaches 5th grade at Baldwin Hills Pilot and Gifted Magnet School. In addition to cultivating the genius and joy in her Joyteam scholars, she is a teacher leader in her school district. Stacey is a UCLA Writing Project fellow and a dedicated writer here with the phenomenal teacher-poets of Ethical ELA. Stacey is a self-published poet and she has poems published in various anthologies: Out of Anonymity, Savant Poetry Anthologies, Teacher Poets Writing to Bridge the Distance, and Rhythm and Rhyme: Poems for Student Athletes.
Inspiration
Kitchens are oftentimes the heartbeat of a home. They are gathering places and hold memories like no other room in a house. Michele Norris hosts a podcast called Your Mama’s Kitchen.
She interviews a guest and they specifically focus on memories of their mamas’ kitchens. Then they share a recipe at the end of the episode.
A recent episode featured legendary author, Judy Blume. I found myself mesmerized by her memories and stories of her mama’s kitchen. If you are interested in listening to that episode, here is the link.
Process
Let’s share our memories from our mothers’ kitchens, our own kitchens, or any kitchen that holds memories for you. You might choose to include some measurements from a recipe, or ingredients from a recipe as part of your poem.
For poetic form, I want to revisit Carolina’s prompt from Open Write in October 2022 and write with “I’ve been writing this since…” as a starting point.
Perhaps a list poem would work if you focus on ingredients or the steps to making a recipe laden with memories from your mama’s kitchen.
Maybe you want to be adventurous and listen to the Judy Blume interview, and pull some words/phrases like the ones below to inspire you or include them in your poem:
“She never showed her grief
I didn’t confess things that were going on inside of me
My mother never liked to cook
Anxiety dream
Food is her way of saying I love you.
The fear of not being perfect…”
Stacey’s Poem
Our Old Kitchen Table
I’ve been writing this since
we sat across from each other
at our old wooden kitchen table
with the screw embedded between
burls and your wine glass, since
I struggled through algebra
and its variables, since
my sad pleas for help
caused anger and exhaustion
I’ve been writing this since
we played Boggle and Yahtzee
after Saturday cartoons
and I Love Lucy, since
my Sweet Sixteen party
with a vanilla cake in the center
of the tablecloth covering the screw, since
my bridal and baby showers
for all our friends and family to
gather around in loving laughter
I’ve been writing this since
the hospice nurse, Gina, sat with us at the table
to explain all the medications
that would numb your suffering
and magnify ours,
since we ate Gina’s spicy tacos after
saying grace, asking God for peace, since
we knew your time here was fading
but memories at our old kitchen table
would be kept sacred.
© Stacey L. Joy, October 17, 2022
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.
I loved this prompt! There is something special about kitchens. The love that is shared, the stories that are told, the secrets that are kept between siblings and cousins! I chose to write this poem about my Grandma’s kitchen. This is the kitchen that she cooked in and now my family gets to make the same memories in it as well.
This prompt was bittersweet!
Grammy’s Kitchen
I’ve been writing this for generations
Since you were a mama
Then again when you were Grammy
Each season, is seasoned with the same love
Grammy’s kitchen where memories dance
We dance in tune of Precious Memories
Her love echoes through just a glance
For her love was by choice not by chance.
For the next generation that will write
Grammy’s kitchen, will forever dwell
In the memories we share
The love will tell
Hi Reagan,
I’m so glad I came back to see if I missed some posts. I adore your poem. You’re so right, kitchens hold love and memories and secrets!! How wonderful that your Grandma’s kitchen is still here for you all to cook in. I can’t even imagine the nostalgia!
Beautiful ending…
Reagan, I remember my mom playing Precious Memories in the kitchen of our first home while she cooked supper. Thank you for this unexpected flashback.
Nani’s Table
I’ve been writing this since 2001.
I’ve been writing this since you’ve been gone.
I’ve been writing this
Since the last bites of biryani vanished from my plate,
Since the last ladleful of khatti daal disappeared,
Since that last fried egg sandwich you made,
Since the last scoops of ice cream were cleared.
I’ve been writing this since 2001.
I’ve been writing this since you’ve been gone.
Saba, my heart feels this deeply. My sister is Nani to her one and only granddaughter. I imagined my great niece feeling all that you’ve written and it is both warm and heartbreaking.
Your Nani loves you, Saba, even from Heaven.
Stacey, I love this prompt! I am writing a middle grade fiction book and had the prompt last week to write about what happens at your main character’s kitchen table. So much, right? Your image of the screw in the table is really grounding. I love that.
I could write several of these for all the important kitchens in my life. Here is one I wrote about one of my grandmother’s kitchens.
Grammy’s Kitchen
I’ve been writing this since the refrigerator
Glowed lime green,
Stored lime jello
And wore a magnet that read,
Nothing tastes as good as being thin feels.
I’ve been writing this since
Grammy’s refrigerator cookies
Begged me to ignore
Magnet instructions.
Invited me to indulge in their sweetness.
Pies and cakes and cookies
Made with Grammy’s hands
For thin people to eat.
Not me.
And even though she was thin,
Not her either.
I’ve been writing this since
Grandpa died
And his best friend brought
Ten boxes of Sees candy to the funeral.
All Bordeauxs, Grandpa’s favorite.
I’ve been writing this since my cousins
Stretched and flexed in front of the table
Readying for their run.
“We ate too much.”
Their perfectly-formed bodies
Glowing.
I’ve been writing this since
Grammy died.
And we all said goodbye to the linoleum floor,
The milk glass vases lined above the kitchen sink.
The fridge now a boring black.
I’ve written this between
Bites of thanksgiving pie
And cranberry salad,
Grandpa’s peach homemade ice cream.
I wrote sweetness
Into each sugary bite.
Into the bitter ones too.
Hi Emily! I love that your main character needs to think about the kitchen table. When your book is published, be sure to share the good news with us here.
As soon as I read “lime green” I was pulled back in time. But that magnet…oh my! And your Grammy made refrigerator cookies while mine called hers Icebox Cookies! So much to enjoy in these similarities.
But the deeper message of thin being front and center is devastating. Your ending pulled my joy right back up!
Stacey, Thank you for sending me down memory lane. Unfortunately, I have waited too late to compose more that I have. I hope to revisit this prompt later.
I’ve been writing this since
cream of mushroom soup covered chicken
and tuna-noodle was a casserole.
I’ve been writing this since
“Just try a little for me, Netta.”
and “Kids in Africa are starving.”
I’ve been writing this since
our full-spread at Christmas
and our formal feast at Thanksgiving.
Hi Donnetta,
April has been a doozy for me so I totally understand. And remember, no pressure and you wrote anyway!
I just had a wondering: Who else said there were starving children in Africa? Was that a Black family thing? I heard it constantly because I hated most of the food I was served.
You were not the only one to write about the dreaded tuna casserole. Hilarious how we have so much in common across cultures.
Donnetta, thank you for sharing your memories! 😍
I so relate to the mushroom soup covered chicken and the tuna casserole. Also to the “Kids in Africa are starving.”
Here’s my late entry…. Love the prompt Stacey !
I’ve been writing this since
Mommy left me 15+ years ago.
I remember she taught me how to make hashed
browns with sliced potatoes and onions.
Somehow, I missed the demos when
I was in high school.
I probably wasn’t interested
I miss the smell of collard greens
and cornbread in her kitchen.
I’ve been writing this since I strongly
impress upon my daughters
the importance of dishwater in the sink.
Mommy always had it and told me to wash the
dishes as I was cooking.
Most of the time, I still follow that lead.
I’ve been writing this since the
many Sundays when I go to church and still look
for her sitting in her pew,
waiting for her to turn around and give me her
dazzling smile yet really looking for her
granddaughters, ready to let me know if she
approves of their hair or is a little disappointed
because I didn’t put enough grease in their hair.
By Seana Hurd Wright
Hi Seana,
Isn’t it amazing how we can think back on all the big memories of our moms and something so small yet powerful hits like hair approval? Wow. I will ever forget when my mother told me my sister-in-law was never to do my daughter’s hair again. 😂
Thank you for sharing this memory! 🩷
Stacey this is such a great prompt. For some reason, I started thinking about tree-lined streets during a road trip today, and I really needed to write about them. Your use of the “I’ve been Writing this since” was so perfect – so I didn’t do it about anyone’s kitchen… but I think maybe I just needed to write about this!
I’ve been writing this since:
I’ve been writing this since
I noticed that I keep noticing
spring trees lining a path
Maybe every spring
I don’t know the names of trees
even the ones you think I should know
but I see them with their small spring blossoms
line the road, your driveway, some sidewalks
I’ve been writing this since
I drove by a lone tree in a front yard
just today
it had purple flowers, a flat top
I guess that the trees don’t have to line a path
for me to dream of sitting with them
I’ve been writing this since
I got married down a long winding
tree-lined driveway
it felt like windswept magic down that drive
I don’t know the names of trees
even the ones that lead the way
I’ve been writing this since
I took my dog on a walk on Saturday
I stopped to smell the sweet white flowering tree
next to the sidewalk
I don’t know the names of trees
even the ones that smell almost
but not quite
like lilac
Ona, my heart melts because you didn’t need to write about kitchen memories. You needed to write exactly what you wrote. It’s breathtaking and captivates me.
These lines could not be more beautiful! Thank you!
Stacey, this was a really fun prompt and I was tempted to write a recipe poem, but instead I went with a memory of my father making pies. Somewhat comical, perhaps concerning, in retrospect, but still fun to look back and laugh about! I love your poem–as usual!–and especially the rhythm of “I’ve been writing this since…”
Pie Day
Dad’s pie days were days you learned
to stay out of the kitchen.
Never much of a cook
Chicken cutlet, broccoli, rice (repeat)
Pies were an unexpected challenge.
Grandma was the baker,
criss-crossed crust tops,
cherry, apple, minced meat–
Thanksgiving dessert couldn’t
come soon enough after dry turkey
and sawdust stuffing (but I digress).
Dad must’ve somehow envisioned
a passing of the torch,
so out came the parchment paper
and the flour and shortening,
apples and cinammon and sweet smells
promising a grandma moment.
But pies are creations of patience and precision
and my dad’s professional
tools were axes and halligans,
roof hooks and rescue saws–
whisks and pastry brushes
seemed silly in his hands.
And yet pie days persisted.
As he yolked the ingredients
his language was salty and we
felt the temperature rising from the
room across the hall.
An epic struggle ensued,
man vs dough, rolling pin and bench scraper
the weapons of choice. Soon,
a crescendo of swearing and then
THWAP! An almost-there pie shell
hits the wall. And a second and third
in quick succession.
Eventually a pie got made.
Delicious! And after dessert,
we grabbed spackle knives
and scraped the walls clean.
Dave,
the humor in your poem is delightful. Reminds me of a story my mom tells of calling her mother to find out what she was doing wrong when she tried to make a pie when she was first married. She didn’t throw the failed attempts at the wall, though I think she was tempted and shared your Dad’s frustration. She did get flour all over the phone and spend money on a long distance call that she could ill afford. And still didn’t come up with an edible pie that day.
Love the portrait you paint of your Dad:
Thanks for sharing and making me laugh.
I love this so much, Dave. I consider myself a baker, but I hate making pies. I really think you have to have a special talent for them. I love these lines, “his language was salty and we
felt the temperature rising from the
room across the hall.
An epic struggle ensued,
man vs dough, rolling pin and bench scraper
the weapons of choice.” I can see myself uttering that salty language! Such a witty poem!
Dave! How funny! I often ask my daughter to be ready to help me “fight the dough” when I make monkey bread for the holidays. Sometimes it’s just a straight out battle! Your dad has my heart! 🩷
Stacey–what an evocative prompt! I ended up picking up on your “I’ve been writing this …” line. The kitchen is a mere echo in the poem–but probably wouldn’t have emerged without the mama’s kitchen prompt. Here goes…
The Joy of the Ordinary
I’ve been writing this
since the day you walked into my life
making conversation easy for once
as we talked through that entire first evening
everyone and everything disappeared
but you
I’ve been writing this
for decades
through our youth and childrearing
sickness and health
frustration and excitement
boredom and change
learning from each other, with each other
embracing the inevitable messiness that life serves up
I’ve been writing this
as I’ve learned to value the ordinary
daily dependability
Love
I taste in the meals you make day in and day out
Love
I hear in days that start and end with I love you
Love
I smell in freshly mown grass or the flowers you decided I needed just because
Love
I see in your attention to detail about all things family
Love
I feel in the warm hugs that defy distance
packed in a text, a phone call, a note in my lunchbox
a whisper in my ear
I’ll be writing this
forever
spending a lifetime
with you
Pure love! Every human deserves this kind of unconditional long-lasting love! Thank you for sharing this delightful poem and your beautiful loving partnership! The kitchen doesn’t need to be the focus when LOVE clearly is!
Thank you, Kim!
💜
Kim,
Nice touch with all the sensory ways love manifests! I like the value of the dependability as an often overlooked but important act of selflessness.
Stacey, I love this prompt. Thank you for sharing. I am including a picture I took today of the poke plant.
These words were served on
My mother’s table and
Her mother’s table
And to some measure on
the tables that came before
and the tables that
Have come since.
.
They have been picked
And looked and sorted
And salted and mixed
And enriched with bacon fat
And boiled and baked
And fried and dished and
Blessed and Shared and
Relished.
They are simple
Yet sustaining.
Pinto beans
Fried potatoes
Macaroni and tomatoes
Cornbread
Poke salad
Karina,
This is so lovely and dear.
I love how you trace the words through your mother and grandmother,
Love how your second stanza overflows with so many verbs of cooking, shifting to the verbs of life and metaphor:
Thank you for sharing and making me thing about what’s been passed down at my family’s tables.
Thanks for sharing your photo! I enjoyed the way you showed the recipe for poke salad in your poem! Sounds delicious!
Katrina,
I really enjoy the way your poem feels like history being passed from one generation to the next, and “They are simple/yet sustaining” shows the endurance of family traditions.
Katrina, I love the polysyndeton throughout! And thanks for the picture of the poke plant!
Katrina,
The picture makes me wonder if I’ve seen this before and never knew what it was. Wow!
I’m impressed by the process you’re able to share in your poem. I need to try Poke salad!
Stacey,
You’ve prompted so many heartfelt poems today. Thanks to you and of our poets. I’ve been so moved reading everyone’s poems today.
Thanks for sharing your sacred memories and allowing us to feel the emotions you felt around that table. Such a powerful, bittersweet ending:
Lots of great memories in my mother’s kitchen, but today’s prompt led me back to my grandmother’s kitchen.
Thanks Grandma
You showed me how
One summer visit
To spread the flour
On the red-checkered oil cloth
On your kitchen table
You deftly rolled out a pie crust
Thin and round and even
Then handed me your red-handled rolling pin
Telling me how to press the rolling pin
Into the cold ball of dough
Guiding me to firmly roll back and forth in each direction
You helped me to make my own crust
For the blueberries that we picked together
Up the hill
In the woods
Even though
Before we’d arrived
You’d already made and frozen enough pie crusts
To last the summer
You’d be happy to know
That your red-handled rolling pin
Sits in my living room
Atop an antique ice box
Where I can see it every day
I don’t put it to good use as often as you did
Not nearly as often as I use your cast iron skillet
But you’d be happy to know
That my brother and I and all three of his kids
Have made many strawberry rhubarb pies for each others’ birthdays
Deftly rolling out crusts
With your red-handled rolling pin
Hi Sharon,
Thank you for sharing this tribute to your grandmother and all her goodness! There’s something special to be said about the red-handled rolling pin! I love that you were able to keep hers along with her cast iron skillet.
These lines are moving just as your hands moved…It’s like I’m doing the rolling with you!
I’m glad you enjoyed today’s prompt and I agree, there are so many heart-felt poems filled with memories today.
Take care and thanks for being here!
Sharon, your poem bring back fond memories of watching my grandmother, than her watching me as I tried to imitate her mixing,tasting and turning.
Hands on is the only way to,learn to cook!
Reminds us, too, as educators, how important it is for us to,allot supervised practice during class time.
Thanks for the reminder and the memories.
Sharon,
What a beautiful memory of time spent with your grandmother. I love the image of the
“red-handled rolling pin
Sits in my living room
Atop an antique ice box”
Sharon, Pie poets unite! I really love the message of generational inheritance from your grandmother to you. The red rolling pin is a beautiful metaphor. And the last stanza is perfect.
Stacey,
Thank you for this prompt and your beautiful poem. I related to some many aspects of your story from playing “Boggle and Yahtzee” at the table to your last stanza “since
the hospice nurse, Gina, sat with us at the table/to explain all the medications”. Before my mother passed, our table looked the same –strewn with medications and medical equipment. You poem really captures how all aspects of life transpire in a kitchen.
Mother to Daughter
I’ve been writing this since
I wrapped cooked green bell
peppers in my napkin,
hoping to sneak them from the table
to dispose of later.
These were the days before we had
A dog to like our fingers clean.
I’ve been writing this since
I sat at the table
and choked down every
green pepper I’d tried to hide away,
since mom saw everything and food
was Not Wasted.
Not even green bell peppers.
I’ve been writing this since
we cracked eggs and mixed flour, sugar,
vanilla and chocolate chips into batter
and mom let us lick the beaters.
One for me. One for my brother.
Mom knew this was our favorite part of baking.
I’ve been writing this since
garlic sauteed in olive oil,
tomatoes bubbled on the stove,
and oregano and sweet basil
wafted through the house,
since mom’s cooking was love
and spaghetti was a staple.
I’ve been writing this since
we crafted Shrinky Dinks
and strung popcorn strings,
since paint by number.
I’ve been writing this since
I grew from a daughter to a
mother, since my children
tie dyed boiled eggs with
Easter bright food coloring,
since they scooped meaty orange pulp
from pumpkins and we etched
maniacal Halloween
faces into the shiny rind.
I have been writing this since I grew
from a daughter to a mother,
and you from mother to grandmother,
since suns rose and set and our time together
as mother and daughter came to an end.
I have been writing this since
our beginning, every memory, a moment
cherished.
I will be writing this until we meet again.
I am drawn in from the start and want to hold on to all of your precious moments. You have given us a look into a treasure of a memory. Thank you, Tammi!
I had completely forgotten about Paint By Number! I love how just about every poem today has reminded me of something I need to savor!
Your ending is golden. I feel this in my heart. 💖
Tammi, I found myself nodding my head as I read so many of your lines. We didn’t waste food either, but the green peppers would have been pretty exotic in our home! I love the passage of time in your poem. And your last line is so compelling.
Oh Tammi,
your last line is so poignant. I can feel the love in all of these recounted memories.
These lines made my breath catch:
Thank you for sharing.
Tammi, these memories are precious! The final line touches my heart. Thank you!
Tammi, your poem is so tender and loving. I adore how you show all the sweet memories from the dyed eggs to the pumpkin carving. Your last line separated from the rest of the poem resonated for me. I do not know what shrinks dinks are. Sounds fun! Gorgeous poem!!
How to Stretch a Dollar
By Mo Daley 4/21/24
On the fourteenth of the month
My mom usually cooked “spaghetti.”
Although it was her own recipe,
I will share it with you today.
First, get out the big stock pot,
The dented and rickety one.
Boil a potful of salted water.
Ignore the cries of, “When are we eating?”
Add 1 or 2 bags of
Mrs. Grass Wide Egg Noodles
Depending on how many kids were home by 5:00.
When the noodles are cooked, add 1 or 2 cans of
Campbell’s Condensed Tomato Soup-
Important note: Generic is not acceptable here.
Add enough water to magically turn the soup
Into sauce.
Variation: When available,
Add cut up pork sausage links.
Mo, you began the recipe with the “dented and rickety” pot and made me smile at once.
Then, comes another gem: “Ignore the cries of, “When are we eating?”” Your ending reminds me of some struggles, as many had at that time with your “when available” note. We didn’t eat enough meat too when I was growing up; it was expensive, and the family was big, so there was usually a bone for the broth and some kind of pasta or rice.
Mo, yummmmm!! As a child, I couldn’t get enough spaghetti! Today, I can’t even stand to look at it but I do sometimes want at least one fork-full. Your mom knew exactly how to stretch that dollar!
Do you make spaghetti? Is there a little of your mom in your recipe?
I’m dying here! It was not good at all, but it was quantity over quality in those days. I don’t think my mom enjoyed cooking, but we had a hot meal together as a family every night. I’m a decent cook, but my son is an amazing chef!
Oh, Mo, this sounds painfully familiar to me. My mother was not a cook, but a lover of canned foods. I love your line that takes us right into the scene – “Ignore the cries of, “When are we eating?”” lol
Mo,
I love the details in your poem: “On the fourteenth of the month” & “The dented and rickety one.” Spaghetti was a staple in our house too.
I love the detail! “Generic is not acceptable here.” Probably not delicious—but memorable!
Yikes! That’s quite the recipe poem! You show how your mom effectively stretched the dollar. We ate a lot of gravy on toast without meat. I’m not sure how that happened!
Mo, this reminds me of the breakfast for dinner nights that we used to have as kids. Also “sausage optional”, lol. I love th specificity of the imagery in this. I can totally picture the pot!
Mo,
I remember Sunday nights like this. Popcorn night! I look back with fondness at the way something could be sold to us as kids and it’d make it more special. The italicized noodles give it a little boost, as does the Campbell’s…Don’t go generic!
“Thanksgiving”
Turkey, steaming gold as sin:
Holiday season – let’s dig in!
Crispy skin and tender meat,
Thanksgiving morning can’t be beat:
Dad steals stuffing from the bird –
Admonitions from Mom heard
Stuffing golden, outside crunchy
Inside buttery, moist, and fluffy
Mushrooms swim in sea of cream
Dill swims in it – what a dream!
Table set and time to nosh
Dinner done, and – oh my gosh!
Cranberry afterthought, forgotten in fridge
(Tradition to forget this dish).
Table set from end to end
Groans with treats and once again
Sweets are brought out, dished to plates
Chocolate pie and turkey cake.
Thanksgiving meal, the best all year –
So let’s give Mom a round of cheers
For food as love and love as food
To feed our hungry, loving brood.
Oh my, Wendy, your poem makes me hungry. I ate a very early supper, so my stomach is growling now )) What a feast you have for Thanksgiving! The rhyme adds so much dynamic to this verses, and I want to give a round of cheers not just to your Mom but to you as well for capturing that festive tone and holiday atmosphere.
Wendy,
I loved this because my eyes and mouth took it all in! I never was a big fan of turkey on Thanksgiving after my grandmother passed because my mom always burned it.
And is it not just every family’s tradition to leave the cranberry sauce or the relish dish in the fridge?? LOVE THIS SO MUCH!
Such an upbeat, happy poem! Love all the rhymes. Your Thanksgiving sounds divine:
Yum!
Wendy,
Americana served w/ delectable rhymes. I love cranberry sauce, so leaving it behind is not an option. That concluding couplet brings this feast home just in time for the turkey hangover nap!
“For food as love and love as food
To feed our hungry, loving brood.”
I get like those two lines need an “Amen!”
Wendy,
Wow! Love the rhyme and rhythm of your poem, and man did you make my mouth water. This sounds like a fantastic Thanksgiving!
Your poem is a celebratory feast! What a wonderful time to celebrate familial bonds with a rich buffet of Thanksgiving food!
My mom has burned our kitchen not once,
but twice.
My brother’s roommates looked forward to her
black-bottomed cookies.
“This is how I like it,” she would say about her burnt toast, and, “reheated spaghetti always tastes best
with a little char.”
Hi! I’m chuckling because my mother was the same! Scraped the black off the toast just about every time we ate breakfast! Cooking was not her thing!
Thank you for the giggles!
Your poem made me smile too. Thank you so much for this lighthearted account! This is charming: ““reheated spaghetti always tastes best /
with a little char.””
Oh, so many sweet lines here. I am reading this lovingly though I wonder if there is more here or if the overcooking revealed itself in other ways.
Always layers.
Nice.
I appreciate a good “black-bottomed” cookie now and again! Thank you for crafting and sharing this with us!
LOL! My ex husband burned our kitchen while I was a work. I didn’t laugh then, but your poem brought a much-needed smile today, I bet your mom is a hoot and has skills much more important than baking cookies. And if you’re unfamiliar w/ the old TV show “Green Acres, watch a couple episodes.
My brothers never turned down my ‘black-bottomed cookies’ – really, the way that is phrased, you’ve made it a culinary treat!
Love that first line! LoL! I also burn things regularly. While I haven’t actually burned down the kitchen, I do frequently set off the fire alarm.
EMVR, thank you for sharing this tragicomedy of a poem. I love “My brother’s roommates looked forward to her black-bottomed cookies.”
Yikes! Love the black bottomed cookie. Nothing like char to add some flavor and flair. (A twice burned kitchen sounds a little scary though)
Everything is better with a little char! “Black-bottomed cookies” sounds like a very fancy delicacy!
Stacey, thank you for hosting today. Your poem is poignant. I love how it has remained sacred for you and your family full of treasured memories of playing games, etc. I have few memories of my mother in the kitchen due to her complete paralysis when I was very young, so my poem is not a happy one, but it’s what I remember about our kitchen.
The Butcher Knife
my dad ruled the kitchen
his razor-sharp knife slicing
angry words he ladled
into dishes we couldn’t eat
peppered with fear
we sat quietly, choking back
our salt-ladened tears
Barb Edler
21 April 2024
Barb,
This is heartbreaking and painful and all too common despite the idealized stories (and poems) of kitchen life. Your poem is a masterclass in concision and diction, from “razor-sharp knife slicing” to “choking back
our salt-ladened tears” the word economy and tight imagery reverberates beyond this space. There’s an echo of “Those Winter Sundays,” Plath’s “Daddy,” dramas w/ kitchen scenes, such as “Death of a Salesman” and “Fences.” We are the byproducts prepared in the kitchens that knead our memories. That’s the insight I’m thinking about after reading your poem.
Oh, Barb! Your and Glenda’s poems break my heart today. Each word weighs so heavily and painfully: “razor-sharp knife slicing angry words” or “peppered with fear…choking back our salt-ladened tears” sounds unbearable for young kids. I think every experience we have affects us and adds to what we become. This is what made you so generous, strong, compassionate, and understanding. Thank you for sharing!
Barb, the figurative language in here is amazing. For such a compact poem, this packs a punch. Beautiful and sad.
Barb, This scene is compelling. Your word choice of “razor” and “slicing” and “choking” signal much more beyond the kitchen for me. And I want to reach in and comfort the tears.
Peace,
Sarah
Oh, Barb, my heart aches!
I am visualizing little you and want to hold you close. Thank you for sharing this even though I know it was hard to do.
Hugs!
This is so painfully sad. I see your young faces “peppered in fear” – how terrifying, “his razor-sharp knife slicing/angry words he ladled.” This is childhood trauma; you have shared it so poignantly with these seven brief lines.
Barb,
So much pain and fear exudes from your poem.
These lines especially —
“angry words he ladled/
into dishes we couldn’t eat”
I’m so sorry you had to endure this abuse.
Barb, I am so thankful for this space we share and for the prompts like the one Stacey has provided. Thank you for sharing this beautiful poem. Your words remind me that since meals are the times when families come together, of course, they are the times when the best and worst of us comes out.
Barb,
So condensed and powerful. I like the contrast between what would be served and the inability to eat it. I think it makes it hit much harder. Little detail with the salt-ladened tears, struck me as a strangely unkitchen kitchen reference.
Oh, Barb, I’m so sorry for the “razor-sharp” “angry words” “peppered with fear” and “salt-ladened tears” Your writing emotion is stronger than that knife. I hope writing this has power over some of those kitchen memories.
I have been writing this since
There were 4 people sitting at the dinner table,
And there was so much about life I didn’t know,
When I spent my time reading books
And playing video games with my twin,
When all I had to worry about was
What my mom was cooking tonight.
I have been writing this since
I was in high school.
There were now 5 people at the dinner table,
And I had to worry about eating fast,
Before my younger brother ate it all first,
And I couldn’t have any seconds.
I have been writing since college,
Where I was lucky and close enough,
To come home every day,
And eat my moms cooking as a family,
Though my brother was now in Ohio,
Eating mom’s food made it feel all right.
I have been writing this since
I was working at Pinewood Middle School,
And my mom still let me stay at home,
And gave me food that she worked hard to make.
Food is her way of saying I love you.
Andrew, such a lovely tribute to your mother. Showing her actions and your memories adds clear images of all these precious memories. Lovely poem!
You are so lucky to eat mom’s food for so long, Andrew! These are great memories to have. These lines made me smile: “Though my brother was now in Ohio, / Eating mom’s food made it feel all right.”
Andrew, I’m with Barb and Leilya; this is a lovely tribute to your mother! And I love your last line: “Food is her way of saying I love you.” I’ve known some folks like this, too!
Love this, Andrew!! I am guessing your mom’s love language is acts of service. I enjoyed the journey that your poem takes me on. Your mom is a special lady and she’s got a heck of a special son in you!
Thank you for sharing her and your memories with us.
Your mom and her cooking sounds so wonderful. I really love these lines,
Stacey, I so love this prompt that lets me “visit” my Mom’s kitchen one more time. Your poem is so tender and full of love. I know that through the times your memories of that “old kitchen table would be kept sacred.” I recently wrote a poem about Mom here, so today, I focused just on one episode from Mom’s kitchen treasures. I may come back to this one to revise and refine more.
Mom’s Flour-Dusted Legacy
I’ve been writing this since
You kneaded the dough
With the heel of your hand,
Slender, strong, skilled,
In a gentle rhythm—
Each fold, each stretch,
A whispered tale—
To me, a pure magic.
Among the haste of daily grind,
You sang your love and worries
In every loaf or meat pie made.
I’ve been writing this
Since my girls flew away
To chase their dreams.
Yes, seeking the recipe of home
From distant lands,
They frequently ask
Craving the flavors of the past:
“How do you make it, Mom?”
And I’d recount simple steps
With dear memories attached.
I’ve been writing this since
My granddaughter awkwardly held
A rolling pin for the first time,
Probably, at the age of three:
“I can do it all by myself, Gramma,”
She assured us, and I saw
My Mom’s reflection twinkling
In her light-green eyes and smile—
A thread unbroken in her tiny hands,
The flour-dusted legacy alive.
Leilya,
As with Denise’s poem, you’ve taken us full circle in life’s journey. Unspoken in your childhood memory shared here is place, and I can’t read w/ out thinking about your homeland and this idea of
“seeking the recipe of home
From distant lands,”
Beautiful.
Leilya, oh my gosh, I love your poem. It is truly touching, tender and full of relatable images to show the legacy of your mother’s cooking hands. I especially enjoyed the lines about your granddaughter and your daughters asking how to make certain dishes. Your final line is delivered perfectly. Thank you for sharing your precious memories!
Every time I read today’s poems I am left feeling as if the poetry world should begin in a kitchen! The language, the visuals, the memories, all produce poetry that I adore.
Continue to enjoy your “flour-dusted legacy” and share it with your little ones!
🥰
Leilya, the traveling we do with you from grandmother to granddaughter with the bit of great-grandma in her eyes paints that unbroken thread for us. I can see the kneading of the dough, feel it beneath my hands too. I love that it is a whispered tale made from quiet motions of love. So much to celebrate in your words today.
Precious memories. This image tugs at my heart,
and then your line “My Mom’s reflection twinkling” …my own eyes watered. Beautiful poem.
Leilya,
Happy to see we both wrote poems about making pie crusts across generations.
What a beautiful connection you describe:
Thank you for sharing.
Oh, Leilya, this is gorgeous. “You sang your love and worries” and “A thread unbroken in her tiny hands” So many beautiful phrases here. Yes, sister, here’s to both our “flour-dusted legac[ies]”
Mom’s Kitchen
I’ve been writing this since
I was a little girl
picking at my tuna casserole
and wishing you would turn it into dessert
I’ve been writing this since
my 8th birthday; since the infamous
double layered cake you accidentally
turned into the grand canyon
I’ve been writing this since
sitting on the barstool after school
sipping my smoothie and telling you
all about Mr. Wicks’ class
I’ve been writing this since
Christmas time, shelling pistachios
with you at the table, begging for
my cookies without coconut
I’ve been writing this since
I started begging for
my Christmas cookies
with coconut
I’ve been writing this since
Sunday pot roast dinners,
since peeling dozens of potatoes and
spooning gobs of whipped cream into jello salad
I’ve been writing this through
nights upon nights of ice cream bowls
(mostly chocolate – and not just choco chunks in vanilla
we’re talking double fudge brownie)
I’m writing this still
while I smell your bread baking
in the oven.
Oh, Rachel, how wonderful it is to still be able to smell mom’s “bread baking / in the oven.” You have so many memories in Mom’s kitchen. They show how you grew up along the way and acquired some taste for “cookies with coconut.” I like the parenthetical note that made me smile. You know a thing or two about good ice cream 🙂 Thank you for sharing!
Rachel, what a wonderful way to format your poem. I so enjoyed your ending which adds such an immediate touch to your poem. The details about ice cream, potatoes and your change in taste with coconut was wonderful. All the food and these moments sound absolutely delicious!
Rachel, this was just gorgeous! Loved all of your imagery — this made me hungry! <3
Rachel, you and I were the same! I hated tuna casserole and wondered why on earth anyone would eat hot tuna! I giggled on this opening image:
And your final stanza is magical!
Those two stanzas about your distaste to delight of coconut – love them! Clever way to write this ‘growth’/transition. Oh my, your poem made me hungry.
Before sharing my poem, I want to say this: I have good kitchen memories but none of my mother or stepmother. Before reading today’s prompt, the title triggered this memory, which I fact-checked w/ my sister. The Canva photo is from Picher, Oklahoma, a town w/ a vile and tragic history.
eating kitchen compost
this is a true memory
i’ve been remembering
since mom, gay, and i lived in
that two-room shack with no
bathroom in Picher, Oklahoma
where mom sat alone at the
kitchen table, an unfiltered
Winston in her right hand,
a Bush beer in her left hand,
her elbows perched like wings
swords ready to slice human
flesh balanced on the table’s
edge as she hissed a curse-
laced word salad into thin air
this is a true memory
i’ve been trying to compost
since i have no memory of
family meals in that kitchen,
only the memory of an empty
ice box shelving a block of
butter, hunger scraping the
bowl of my stomach, rats seeking
to satiate their cravings racing
across the floor & mom
feeding the wind the same
words meal after meal between
chugs of Bush beer & drags on
her Winston: i believe in god….
Glenda Funk
4-21-24
So much raw emotion here. Your imagery is amazing. I’m drawn to the “elbows perched like wings / swords ready to slice human / flesh,” the “curse / laced word salad.” And what a title!
Glenda, your imagery draws the scene with laser-sharp precision, and I can see the emotion, too, the opening of bruised and sore places in the heart left by the curse word salad and the elbow swords – and the hunger. To bear witness to this today is to stand with you, silently and reverently, understanding far more about the deep well of your inner strength and taking a painful glimpse of your journey. I’m so thankful that you shared this poem and inviting us into your kitchen to be with you.
Glenda, thank you for preparing me for your poem with your opening notes. Your Canva rendition shows the poverty well, but not as well as your poem today. I am deeply moved by the poverty you reveal by sharing that this shack had not bathroom. Your mother sitting at the table with an unfiltered cigarette and beer shows her lack of concern for her children. The lines that show your hunger are visceral, and I’m horrified by the images of the rats that “satiate their cravings”. When you get to your final line, my heart is completely torn in two. Cruelty, neglect, poverty and the feeling of not mattering rings through this entire poem. Your title is especially apt. Thanks for your honest depiction of this difficult time in your life. Hugs, dear friend!
Glenda, I am just in awe of your ability to write about this memory. Your impeccable diction, imagery, phrasing–every stylistic tool works so well to allow readers witness the scene and experience the mood created by your tone. I know you have good kitchen memories, and I am thinking you are a part of them, or creating them, to be more precise. I am grateful for the opportunity to read your poem today.
Glenda, your choice of words and imagery are so poignant — those Winstons make me think of my dad. The sharpness in the here, both literally and int terms of the clarity of your memory…I loved this:
“this is a true memory
i’ve been trying to compost”
and this:
“hunger scraping the
bowl of my stomach”
Gorgeous poem. <3
Glenda,
Pardon my language but, DAMN! I didn’t expect this and I am just sitting here shaking my head. Glenda, you tell us a story with two powerful stanzas that could easily be a full book. Imagining the way…
and then…
Like we say in my friend circle, “Woooo, child!” I know now why you are who you are and why you love so deeply!
Thank you for sharing something so intense and raw from your past.
💛
“her elbows perched like wings
swords ready to slice human
flesh “
Terrifying. Cruel. Oh so very sad. I am so very sorry that you lived this way, that this is the first kitchen memory that came into your mind when you saw today’s prompt. Kudos to you and your sister for survival!
Memories From Two Kitchens
I’ve been writing this since
mom, dad, Raggedy Ann and I
sat at the kitchen table for dinner
Raggedy and I remaining
while mom did the dishes,
Unable to leave until every last
morsel had been eaten
“No dessert if you don’t finish everything on your plate”
I’ve been writing this since
Sitting at grammy’s kitchen table
Devouring every bite I could,
Rewarded with dessert no matter what
“Some for now and the rest you’ll take home”
Brownies without nuts,
Pumpkin and squash pie, chocolate chip cookies, cakes
All made with love
I’ve been writing this since
Recently learning to cook
Better late than never, right?
Oh how proud they’d both be of me,
Lessons started in mommy and grammy’s kitchens
Mmmm what a contrast! “Devouring every bit I could, / Rewarded with dessert no matter what.” I’m trying to make my kitchen like that. Also I love Raggedy Ann as a character in your poem!
You had me at Raggedy Ann – – oh, how I loved my Raggedy Ann and Andy pair. They sat on my twin bed like pillows when I was young. To bring them to this table is to share that experience with all of us who can see you there, struggling to finish those peas……and yes, they would be proud of your learning to cook. Lovely memories today!
Heidi,
I love the transitions from your childhood to grammy’s kitchen, then to your own. I am sure they are very proud of you! Do you cook anything that you feel is a reminder of either of them?
I love this. Thanks for also reminding me how I never ever seemed to be able to leave the dinner table because I was a child who couldn’t clear a plate. Still can’t do it. Ho hum.
🤗
Why was this need for a clean plate pushed so much, by so many parents? Ugh. As a grandmother, I loved your line “Rewarded with dessert no matter what” (I can’t help but wonder what your mom thought of that.)
Oh, Heidi, they will be so proud of you! You don’t have to be perfect; loving and caring are enough. Grandmas are always easier on the grandkids than parents it seems.
Heidi, your words remind me of how our memories of kitchen and food and eating are so tightly bound to the attitudes or even cultural norms surrounding them. I can relate to your “lessons started in mommy and grammy’s kitchens.” I remember them too.
When I think of cooking and kitchens, I always think of my Papa. He loved cooking, and one of my last days with him was cooking one of his favorites – pasta fagioli. Thank you for this space to revisit this memory. I have been missing him lately.
Kitchen Memories
I’ve been writing this since
we last made your favorite –
pasta fagioli –
in your kichen with
you in your wheelchair
at your counter on wheels,
chopping onion and garlic.
I’ve been writing this since
I poured white beans and
diced tomatoes into the pot and
then sprinkled spaghetti,
snapped in equal lengths,
and spices across the top,
following your every direction.
I’ve been writing this since
I knew that was the last time
we would ever cook together
and I would be left
with only the memories and
the missing of you
to cook pasta fagioli alone.
Heather,
This is a beautiful eulogy. The last stanza showed your love and memory of this person.
So, so beautiful. What a tribute to your father! I love that image of him in the wheelchair, giving you directions – and all your recipe details add so much to the poem. I hope you can share this with your family!
Heather, thank you for sharing this memory of your Papa with us today. My Dad was the one who taught me to cook my first soup, and I have a little sketch describing this memory, which is similar to your poem. Your final stanza is so tender; I can feel your huge loss and hope memories like this one will help a little. Hugs!
Ahhh, your grandfather would be so honored to know how beautiful this poem is and how much it means to me/us here that you shared him with us. I wish I had taken more time to study all of my grandmother’s moves in the kitchen. It seems she’s with me when I bake but there’s so much more I would have loved to learn.
Your second stanza is precious. I can see you right there next to your beloved grandfather.
Thank you, Heather.
Absolutely beautiful and poignant poem; thank you for sharing this precious memory with us. I imagine him there at the counter, cooking that delicious meal with you…
I’ve been writing this since
finding Grandma’s cookies
stashed
second cupboard, left of the fridge
in old plastic buckets
oatmeal raisin, sometimes chocolate chip,
molasses (my favorite).
And single serving portions
of mashed potatoes
and roast beef gravy
frozen in used butter tubs
waiting for Sunday lunches.
I’ve been writing this since
Mom made German Chocolate Cake
for my birthday
because I thought it sounded exotic.
And that one time she gave my sister
a store-bought cake (gasp) thinking
it would be a special treat
and Kate cried and cried.
I’ve been writing this since
we tried to get that family pie
recipe to work like my wife’s grandma did.
Studying her recipe card
in that old familiar script,
agonizing over the details she forgot,
hoping to bring back some small part of her
in an 8-inch pie shell.
There are so many memories and flavors packed into your poem. I can relate to your last stanza; I am always trying to recreate a family recipe. There is so much pressure to measure up to my ancestors.
Eric, I took somewhat a similar approach today to show the generational ties through the kitchen.It is interesting how memory works and allows you to remember the exact place where your Grandma stashed cookies: “second cupboard, left of the fridge / in old plastic buckets.” The ending sounds so beautiful: “hoping to bring back some small part of her /
in an 8-inch pie shell.”
I love how you share such a sweet variety of beautiful memories. There is something so very special about recipe cards in handwritten script.
What beautiful food memories you’ve written about today! That last stanza is superb. Your German chocolate cake reference had me smiling, as it’s one of my favorites!
How did I miss this earlier today? So much to take in and enjoy. I love that German Chocolate Cake was exotic to you. That’s priceless!
Thank you for giving us these special memories!
Biscuits
I’ve been writing this since
we were first together
in her small kitchen
her weathered hands
mixing rolling patting
the dough
never measuring, just doing
each tenderly made
how her mind held the recipe
although so much else
was slipping away
like flour in the sifter
I’ve been writing this since
listening to the reminiscing
how you’d wake to the aroma
flaky buttermilk confections baking
how she made dozens and dozens
each morning
thirteen children to feed
a delicious way to save, to stretch
your family’s very few dollars
warm breakfasts
holding you and your siblings
all these many days
I’ve been writing this since
the grandchildren laugh and play
our children banter
blackberries stew on the stove
and there you are
tenderly working your hands
in the deep wooden bowl
lost in quiet reverie
creating luscious
for all of us
Thanks for sharing. I love the tone you created with the just-right sensory details.
Beautiful memories filled with wonderful sounds, smells, and tastes. This makes me wonder what my own children would write about me in the kitchen.
This is beautiful, Maureen. I can picture those weathered hands so clearly, never measuring. I love how you’ve seamlessly woven the generations through your poem. Those last two lines are terrific.
Maureen,
I know you have three brothers so am guessing this poem honors your grandmother. It reminds me of things I did to stretch the food dollar when my children were small, as well as the commodity food we ate after my father lost his sight, and I’m reading these heartbreaking lines—
“her mind held the recipe
although so much else
was slipping away
like flour in the sifter—-
and thinking about what Neil Sedaka called “The Hungry Years.” I think we miss those days not for what was better but for how our people were healthy and not “slipping away.” So many poems today remind me that memory retrieval is so much like preparing favorite foods. Knowing some of the heartache you faced as a child, I’m glad you shared this memory filled w/ love and gratitude.
Actually, it honors my mother-in-law; my husband is the one who has carried on her beautiful skills in cooking biscuits.
Maureen, your mom reminds me mine so much in the way “her weathered hands” worked with dough “never measuring, just doing.” Feeding thirteen children was a challenge, and I know this well; I am the eighth child in the family. Love these lines: “tenderly working your hands /
in the deep wooden bowl / lost in quiet reverie.”
The poem’s flow is tender and creates warm and cozy tone. Brings me back to my childhood. Thank you!
Hi Maureen,
I was so pulled in by these lines:
And 13 children to feed?? Lord! I can’t even imagine. I struggled with two!
The final two lines are pure love! Thank you, Maureen. I enjoyed this loving memory.
I’ve been writing this since
I begged for greasy burgers, a blintz,
Pizza, or pancakes’ sweet deliverance
From my stomach’s sad remembrance
Of swirling night’s ends, a late night defense
I’ve been writing this since
Roll call, late night stifled laughter
Double portions from flavorless crafters
In a DFAC with rats in the rafters
I’ve been writing this since
I learned to measure, mix, core
Julienne, mince, make it uniform
Strictly followed each recipe norm
I’ve been writing this since
The flutter kicks told me to create
Something my children would await
Hours spent crafting perfect birthday cakes
I’ve been writing this since
A surprise genetic disorder waltzed in
Set me in a recipe-land manic tail spin
Celebrating each close replica as a win
I’ve been writing this since
My hands learned how to knead
Slippery chicken made my fingers bleed
But the table had bellies full of glee
I really appreciate your autobiographical approach. I feel as if I learned so much about you through this lens of working in different kitchens through the years…that military dining hall, oh my! Loved how you wrote “Julienne, mince, make it uniform” – I immediately imagine all the military rules and procedures. This is so very tender, “The flutter kicks told me to create.” I am familiar with the “recipe-land manic tail spin;” one of my sons has an autoimmune disease which is triggered by some common ingredients, and we have found so many new ways to prepare food as a result. Glad that, in the end, “the table had bellies full of glee” – wonderful poem!!
Hi Maureen,
Thank you for your kind words. My daughter has PKU, so it was like my kitchen got turned upside down.
Thanks for sharing. I like the alliteration, assonance and rhyme you created, especially the “rats in the rafters” line paired with “flavorless crafters.”
Oh, Ashley, forgive my late response. I am so moved by your words, your rhymes, and your memories. The reality of life in its most delicate form warmed my heart:
Any time a parent has an unexpected twist with a health concern for their babies, I instantly think: “We are warriors and so are our children.”
Thank you for sharing this beautiful poem and your special memories with us.
Stacey, Thank you for the memories. I spent some time looking at my mom’s recipe book and craving sweet treats!
I was especially struck with your words but “memories at our old kitchen table would be kept sacred” My heart was filled with warmth and sadness reading that!
I took the line from Judy Blume’s interview to start my verse today: “My mother never liked to cook…”
My mother never liked to cook but boy did she like to bake!
Around the table
we gathered to sample
the delicacies made lovingly
in her kitchen
where yellowed recipe cards in perfect script note the steps to her heavenly treats.
War cake filled with
cinnamon, raisins,and cloves
Scotcheroos, a gooey sweet
of rice cereal, butterscotch
and chocolate topping
Mom’s specialty penuche,
brown sugar, walnuts too
poured into the large green plate
with samples on the wooden spoon
Apple Impromptu, a warm fall dessert of apples, cinnamon, a crispy cake-like crust
with vanilla ice cream melting on top
and Tom’s Donuts, nutmeggy warm treat perfect dipped in coffee
All of these baked goods from mom’s special place,
It’s no wonder I have a sweet tooth!
Your poem has made me hungry, lol! I love your twist, “My mother never liked to cook but boy did she like to bake!” followed by your scrumptious recitation of her sweets.
Christine, it was fun reading the names of all those sweet treats. I must say, I enjoy baking more than cooking, too. And my sweet tooth is ridiculous. Thanks for making me smile today.
Hi Christine,
Sorry for the late response. I absolutely believe your poem should be painted and also read aloud! It’s too late for dessert and I’m not even a dessert fan but man, I want something sweet! Tomorrow morning I’ll take a minute to appreciate my coffee and maybe a plain donut just because.
I love this sweet treat of a poem!
Aunty S’s Dishes
I’ve been writing this since
I was introduced to the aromas
from Aunty S’s kitchen
It transported me to
A world of recipes
I’ve been writing this since
The variety of salads and
Tropical fruits were welcome
at each and every meal
Local dishes wore
different clothing
I’ve been writing this since
ripe, plantain fritters wore
A new coat and spinach
stew swayed to a new rhythm
The dishes on her table were
an escape from the norm
I’ve been writing this since
Our taste buds looked forward
to her visit, they swirled
Around every dish she carried in her
Raffia basket to Mama’s kitchen
An addition to Mama ’s table.
I love the contrasts in the meals and then right down to the raffia baskets! Family recipes are what brings us joy!
“Local dishes wore
different clothing”
This sounds like the hallmark of an excellent cook. You are lucky to have Aunty S, I think.
Juliette, I love the personification. “ripe, plantain fritters wore a new coat and spinach swayed to a new rhythm.”
Ohhhh my goodness, how I would love to meet and eat with Aunty S! The mystery and the sensual play with personification made me want to know more, taste it and be in her presence.
This is delectable!
LOVE IT!
Stacey,
Thanks for the prompt today! It was interesting to me as so much time was spent with the kitchen as the busy place of the house, but all I kept coming back to was the phone on the wall and Mom talking to someone, stetching that cord probably twice the distance intended.
Anyway, it made me think of all the ways the cord played a part of the action…
KITCHEN SPACE WALK
I’ve been writing this since
the cord was the kitchen
and the kitchen was the cord,
lifeline to the outside
beyond the smells of delicious,
stretched to the hallway
stretched to the living room
stretched to Sandy on Westminster Drive,
Dad at the office,
recipe exchanges, plans, plots,
reunion communions,
a stretching to other mothers.
The curled yellow gnarled cord,
the umbilical to my mother
as the captain of a kitchen ship,
ties to Glenn Drive,
and the still now neural link
to polyester memories
of the 1970s.
Rex,
I can see this kitchen through the beautiful imagery you shared with us! What lovely lines showing how the aroma traveled down the street and wielded itself into your memories!
What a cool memory to focus on, that old kitchen phone. We had this, too – fun to think back on how all of the conversations were within earshot. These two lines share how essential that phone was to your mom, such a great detail –
Rex, your title is perfect for your poem. It reminded me of how back in the day, phones were often in the kitchen. I appreciated your repetition of “stretched” and the metaphor of the cord being the lifeline and an umbilical cord. I had to laugh at “polyester memories” what a unique and clever description of the 70s.
Rex,
Yes, the kitchen phone and that notorious cord!!
And ours was mustard yellow too!!! OMG, so many memories flooded back in for me.
Thank you for sharing this gift with us.
Stacey, thanks to you and others whose prompts have taken us back to reflect on earlier days. Sometimes, the memories have been pleasant; sometimes, they’ve been sad, but we realize they have made us who we are today. We are thoughtful contributors to an OPEN WRITE group, loving to write in verse.
Schooled from a Stool
Kitchen memories for me are odd
My mother often sat on a stool
Being obedient, I had to nod
When she pointed out a particular tool.
My mom was limited in her movements
As a preteen, I had to do the work.
There was little time for amusement
Kitchen duty, I’d better not shirk.
Thankfully, over time, I learned to cook
And at that time when I now look
I acknowledge that I learned ‘cause she was there
Sitting in her tall, metal, high-backed chair.
You were your mom’s sous chef, I think! Love your rhyming in this poem, especially ‘work’ and ‘shirk.’ Your poem reminds me that something may not feel particularly fun when we are young, yet we learn so much from it and can look back with those infamous ‘rose-colored’ glasses.
Anna, boy do I remember this kind of chair. I appreciated your opening line and “Kitchen duty, I’d better not shirk”. Learning how to cook can be a blessing, but sometimes those lessons are not always full of fond memories.
Anna,
Your poem calls up other poems you’ve written about your mother. And your body serving as hers in this kitchen speaks to the important role you had in your family so young. I am in awe of your second stanza surfacing lessons learned. What a craftful poem.
Sarah
Anna, my heart melts when I picture you being there as a pre-teen helping your mom in the kitchen. She must have done an outstanding job teaching you because look at what a phenomenal teacher and mom you are!
🥰
Stacey,
Thank you for the trip down memory lane and for my examination of conscience. And I love your poem, how each stanza shows a little different view and purpose of the kitchen table. The power of these lines…
Dinner Time
When I allow myself to cut her slack,
I realize that she was a better mom
than I give her credit for.
She had dinner on the table every night,
which is far more than I can say for me.
I don’t remember being aware of the prep
or cooking of meals much
It almost seemed to materialize when
it was time to eat.
Our small kitchen was not a hub of activity.
But our dining room was a little more.…
the table being the grounds for many a board game battle.
Through my childhood, the six of us did always gather for dinner.
Always began with prayer.
Always ended with dessert.
Those bookending a variety of meals…
lasagna
spaghetti
pork chops
liver and onions
polish sausage and sauerkraut
fried chicken
meatloaf
chicken cordon bleu
roast, carrots, and potatoes
coneys
I don’t remember a lot
about those times.
I do remember stuffing peas into
the crack of the table since
we were a “clean your plate” family,
regardless of our disdain for certain things.
I know my brain and my soul
were fed every bit as much
as my body was.
At least she made dinner.
~Susan Ahlbrand
21 April 2024
Susan, “at least she made dinner” is ringing in my ears… I know I took that for granted. And I know that my dad was no help in the kitchen. Your poem helps me appreciate all that work each day, without praise or recognition. Thanks for helping me appreciate that all the more! Great poem
Oh you made me laugh with
“stuffing peas into/
the crack of the table “
This is the bad behavior that I remember, too, an essential element when part of that darn clean plate club.
I struggle to remember my mom in the kitchen. Someday, I will delve into that a bit more. I love the last three stanzas. The peas made me laugh and the feeding of the brain and soul and the last line made appreciate the importance of discussion during dinner time.
Susan, your poem reminded me of a question I used to ask when I just began my own family: “How did mom manage to do everything?” Your lines are very relevant for this reason:
“I don’t remember being aware of the prep
or cooking of meals much
It almost seemed to materialize when
it was time to eat.”
I also like that you recognize: “my brain and my soul /were fed every bit as much / as my body was.” Isn’t this what’s the most important?
As for cleaning the plate, I understand “stuffing peas into / the crack of the table.” Because there was always a tablecloth, I simply cried at the table when I could make myself eat some dishes I could not stand ))
OMG, Susan, I cracked up at the peas! I am sure I smashed peas somewhere too! I love that visual.
I also appreciate your confession in the opening and closing of your poem. It feels cleansing to say it out loud. I love a good heart dump of things that need to be said.
I appreciate you letting us in to see the memories of your kitchen and your mom.
💜
Susan, wow, I love that you cut her some slack in your poem today, and recognized the dinners created for a large family each day. That was something, indeed. “Stuffing peas into the crack of the table” Oh, the problems with being “a ‘clean your plate’ family” (I was too and I have stories) The beginning stanza and that last line leave so many things said/ unsaid.
Stacey,
It occurs to me you’ve written a Mother’s Day poem, one that maps the life of your family, symbolized on the well-used kitchen table full of food, learning, birth, death, transitions. I love that the table memories “would be kept sacred.” I’ve written my poem and will share later today. 🥰
the kitchen
or as I like
to call it
the room
in the house
where
periodically
all the cooking
utensils suddenly
change drawers
_______________________________________________
I know that I am not the most observant person (read: man) but I could have sworn the apple corer went in the drawer with the other thing with the spiral edges that reminds me of some medieval torture device, is this new by the way?, I’ve never seen this before, to which my wife will then, patiently, say, no, we’ve had that for about three years now, and no it doesn’t go there, it goes here, and it’s now that she’ll open a drawer that, I swear, I never knew existed, I mean, wait, I thought that was just part of the counter, what is happening right now, and she’ll smile and say, and that other tool is a pepper corer, anyways, I just wanted to say thank you for this prompt, Stacey, I enjoyed it! (And your mentor poem was wonderful! Your “Old Kitchen Table” with its “screw embedded between / burls” has seen a great deal, a whole gamut of emotions throughout the years. The lines for me that hit/hurt the most: “to explain all the medications / that would numb your suffering / and magnify ours.”)
Scott – I love your definition of KITCHEN. My kitchen can attest to that. All the utensils end up in different drawers until the guilt is too much for me and I make myself do meditative sorting! Of course 3 days later, the utensils have rebelled again!
Haha! I love your observation. It seems very astute. This surely happens in kitchens all over the world.
Scott,
Hilarious! I appreciate seeing your point of view about all the things that find new places in the kitchen.
😂
Scott, I’m the cook in my house and I still very much relate to your definition of the kitchen! This entry is another case where your end notes are every bit as engaging as the poem—which is a staple of a Scott post. David Foster Wallace has got nothing on you! Thanks for helping to make this such an enjoyable month with your writing!
Esther couldn’t write it down.
It wasn’t something that’d translate.
You’d have to witness the raviolis
spread across counters, tables, &
chairs to understand the recipe.
Dolores wouldn’t write it down.
It wasn’t something she’d give freely.
You’d have to spend time with her &
ask questions, but also look closely
as she said a teaspoon but put in a tbsp.
When I came around one Christmas
to write the recipe, Mom put me to
work on the onions, then tomato paste
cans, then stirring the sauce for hours
as she added a dash of this or that.
We talked, then, of ingredients, the parts
that built the ten pound tray of lasagna
we co-lifted into the oven. I wondered
about the red pepper flakes & cinnamon
dash– was that your way or grandmas?
But when the rest arrived, wonderings
drowned in the scalding dish water as
brothers filled the kitchen to help heave
the hot tray for supper, and she held
us hostage for a lecture before we could eat.
I love this. It so reminded me of my family’s recipe and traditions, and the piecing together of food and memory. I laughed at the last line – because it rang so true! I miss those days.
Sarah, the ways of family mealtime when the blessings of the generations are all present…..I can feel the togetherness, the work, the wonderings drowned in the dish water. The task of cooking in a large family kitchen is its own unique recipe.
Sarah,
The best fishes come from the “wouldn’t write it down” traditions that require us to notice the what and how. Several things I prepare regularly are like that, and when Ken tries to duplicate them we have a long discussion filled w/ my “I don’t know. I just guess” responses. But my favorite lines in this recipe feast are those w/ a dash of humor:
“she held
us hostage for a lecture before we could eat.” Sounds like a long prayer at my family gatherings.
Sarah, I find your poem compelling. The way people covet family recipes refusing to let anyone else know of how they create something marvelously delicious is relatable. I liked how you structured this poem, showing the various ways it became literally impossible to really capture the exact measurements and whether or not the pepper flakes and cinnamon were always part of the recipe. Your final line about being held hostage to hear her lecture is heart wrenching. Incredible poem!
Sarah, this is such an easy-flowing recount of the family meal preparation. Your poem is so relevant, and I smiled reading:
“You’d have to witness the raviolis
spread across counters, tables, &
chairs to understand the recipe.”
We didn’t use recipes in my family either. It was always a dash of this and a pinch of that. When friends and husband’s family ask me for a recipe, Lee Roy says: “It’s a family secret,” and laughs: “She doesn’t know what she put in it this time.” Thank you for this joy today!
Sarah,
This helps me visualize your large family gatherings in the kitchen and I am kind of envious! LOL, with just my sister and parents, there was never real excitement in our kitchen. Yours makes me want to spend time in that space and maybe finding a secret recipe written somewhere, hiding and waiting for you!
Perfect ending! I want to know more about the lecture!
Stacey – Thank you for bringing us together around the kitchen table –
our old wooden kitchen table
with the screw embedded between
burls and your wine glass,
My poem is a dream I had of my grandfather’s kitchen shortly after my mother passed.
My Aunt Jo had died when she was in her early 60s – too young – too soon. I often as a child looked to her for guidance as this dream suggests.
Aunt Jo’s Kitchen
In a dream, steam rises
from a large stainless steel pot.
Aunt Jo stands guard,
A wooden spoon in hand,
Stirring the tomato sauce.
I put on a pot of artichokes,
And breathe in the fragrant air —
Aunt Jo laughs and talks, and
Puffs on a cigarette,
She has been gone over 20 years.
How I’ve missed her!
The kitchen is so warm and bright,
I’m happy to be with Jo,
Then a great sadness settles over me,
I tell my aunt that I’m trying to call
My mother, but I can’t reach her.
Aunt Jo tells me to try again.
I wander around my grandfather’s house,
Calling and shouting for my mother,
I return to the kitchen and hear
My mother’s distant voice.
I turn to my aunt and say,
“I hear her, but I cannot see her!”
Putting her arms around me,
My aunt says, “It’s all right.
She’s right here!”
Joanne, what a vivid retelling of this dream. Your sweet Aunt Jo. I so love this image:
“Aunt Jo laughs and talks, and
Puffs on a cigarette,”
Joanne,
Tnis is a haunting poem—in a good way. People often stay w/ us, influencing us long after they’re gone. Aunt Jo seems like that kind of person. I’m so glad that cigarette made an appearance:
“Aunt Jo laughs and talks, and
Puffs on a cigarette,”
Women back in the day did stand at the stove smoking as they cooked. It’s such a realistic detail that situated the poem in a past we rarely see in our present.
I really liked this dream sequence poem. Loving the one you’re with but thinking about another. Hmmmm. This really made me think.
Thank you.
Ohhh, Joanne this is deep! I feel your desire to call your mother and being unable to reach her. That’s how many of my dreams were shortly after my mom passed. But having your aunt there in the dream is surreal! I love this for all that it says and also all that is left unsaid.
Joanne,
Ah the emotional truth of dreams—
I like how you capture the emotions of grief:
I’m glad your long-missed Aunt Jo returned in your dream to comfort you. Your description of her is so vivid and present:
Thank you for sharing.
Good Morning, Joy…hugs to the west coast from the east. The kitchen offers so many memories – words that are delicious ones, including those I’ve been taught how to say (which I’m sure I butchered).
Such spaces rarely sit still (these lines turned a corner for me which made me stop and think). Wonderful.
Too Many Cooks (for Joy)
b.r.crandall.
I’ve been grinding the way since Brown School Days,
blending bags of Hershey kisses into dust mites
to pepper yellow cake and pudding,
bundting my way towards first base,
while licking my lips and ganashing heavy cream
for others…an Alice tradition, now my own.
Perhaps summers began on Mt. Pleasant,
Alla y’aa kee, Alla muta,
where we’ve walked to the farmer’s market
for tamati, wose,, foloto, Koboukobou,
& sawsaw, nyo, stewing sauce,
(me, the Mansa at the grill, kee ba,
steaming baara maano as a base for ceeseh) –
the Mand-english special
for singing ‘two more days’.
And I’ve been honeying carrots since
the Cadbury eggs first hosted themselves
in my kitchen, a space where I slice orange wafers
into rosemary prayers and maple,
baking them with rebirth,
a simple syrup for a glass of bourbon…
citrus, the juicy squeeze before heading to bed
(I’m old-fashioned that way).
Yet, I still haven’t found a recipe for Joy,
although I’ve been writing this poem for her all day.
Oh, Bryan, what a wonderful tribute to our friend Joy and joy and cooking and magical word usage. “honeying carrots” and “I slice orange wafers / into rosemary prayers and maple” are just a couple of my favorites here.
Bryan, this is a culinary fest if ever there was one. I have no idea what most of these things are but the details for stewing sauce and honeying carrots, along with those rosemary prayers and maple make me want to explore. Thank you for those last two lines (adore them, her, and you). Stacey is the perfect joy.
Bryan, your poem is a delight! You had me reading closely and smiling all the way. Thank you!
Bryan,
This is so delicious. The “honeying carrots” and “slice orange wafers/into rosemary prayers and maple.” I mean, come on, this is so beautiful.
And I love how I am connecting poems now the “glass of bourbon” in your poem reminds me of Susie’s poem that had a glass of bourbon in it!
Hugs,
Sarah
Wow, wow, wow, my heart is full. I am not sure if I’m craving a Hennessy Side Car because you share your love of Old Fashions or because I’m wanting the “rebirth” to start my day. I love the journey from…
to this phenomenal space…
I can’t wait to find a recipe for Joy! If you find it first, let us share in the joy!
Much love, Bryan, and thank you for writing for me and with me.
🥃Cheers! It’s 5:00 somewhere!
Cadbury eggs, orange wafers, rosemary prayers…..my mouth is watering and I can smell all of the deliciousness of that stanza and all of them……I’m a fan of orange anything….even orange slice candy. You have delivered a delectable read today.
Bryan, of all this magnificent imagery, exotic flavor, and wordplay, the words “rosemary prayers” captivate me most – invoking something something so pure, sweet, and cleansing, especially followed by “baking them with rebirth.” So so beautiful.
Stacey, thank you for this prompt. Eating and cooking and sitting around the table are things we all can relate to, that’s for sure. I fee like I know your old kitchen table through this poem “with the screw embedded between burls” So many life events taking place there. Beautiful.
For Grandma
I’ve been writing this since
I was six years old and we
young ones had to climb
into the broken window
to unlock the door to get all
into the house where the birds
had taken up residence
I’ve been writing this since
that house became your home
and that kitchen became where
we watched you make popovers–
you gently beating the eggs and milk
and stirring in the flour
until just moistened.
I’ve been writing this since
your index finger spatula-ed
out every last bit of the batter
into the mismatched custard cups
and baked them for what seemed
like hours at two different temperatures
I’ve been writing this since
those popovers, with their custardy
interiors and crispy toasted outsides,
came out of the oven
we broke them open
and added
honey
or boysenberry jam
or syrup
and ate our fill
on those slow deserty mornings
at your house
I’ve been writing this since
I found those old custard cups
high on a shelf in Lori’s laundry room
and she welcomed me to take
them home, and now I’m
the grandma who bakes popovers
in the desert. And you would be glad
to hear that I’ve got the magic spatula
finger so I don’t waste a drop
Denise, I’m imagining all of you young ones clamoring into the house like fledglings trying to get back into the nest of the house. Your poem is a sensory delight. And I am yearning for those custardy soft and crisp-toasted popovers – I can see the steam rising as honey drizzles and jam glops in the beauty of “slow deserty mornings.” The next time we’re together, let’s make our grandmother’s foods to share – your popovers and my chicken and rice soup. I’ll bring my own magic spatula finger. 😉
Denise,
I am brought directly into these scenes as if you are writing each out of into being alongside you with moments so familiar to us/me yet so specific to you. The “index finger spatula-ed/out every last bit of batter” and “mismatched custard cups” brings me into a loving memory. And then you masterfully thread that scene through in the final lines of “magic spatula/finger so I don’t waste a drop.” Heaven forbid!
Hugs,
Sarah
Oh, Denise, who doesn’t recall the index finger spatula! Such a treat to hold in my mind. I am sure your grands love you and your spatula finger! Too cute!
I don’t like popovers but I’m wanting to eat SOMETHING SWEET right now!
Thanks, Denise, for this delicious offering.
Oh so good! Especially loved – your index finger spatula-ed out every last bit of the batter.
I used to make popovers all the time. They were my in-laws favorites. Now they are gone and I am gluten free. Your poem brings me back to that custardy goodness. Thank you!
Denise,
WOW! This is a circle of life poem. I feel empowered to make popovers, which I’ve never made, because your poem had such strong women at its center. I love thinking about you inheriting g the “magic finger” and using those same cups, artifacts of a tasty past.
Denise, she would indeed be so proud! I can feel the smiles, the knowing that the custard cups are carrying on the tradition of kitchen togetherness. I love the legacy that is continuing, the taking of the reins and the spatula finger in the same cups, and popovers too. Most important, that values are being held, that family is loved, that stories and memories are shared to keep the dreams alive. This is precious time, special moments.
Denise, I love the way your poem progresses, and I had to laugh out loud at “I’ve got the magic spatula finger”. The popovers sound delicious. It is interesting how things return in life, since you now are the grandmother baking in the desert. The house sounds like it was resurrected from your opening lines. Compelling poem!
Denise,
I so love this “life comes full
circle”-ness of this poem.
”now I’m the grandma” just made me smile then it got trumped by “the magic spatula finger.”
Denise, are you sure we are not sisters? As I read your poem, I sense the same tone of keeping up the family traditions with that “magic spatula.” In your forth stanza, you make me hungry; I want to try these popovers with “crispy toasted outsides” filled with honey or jam. My grandkids also love visiting me because of these “slow desert mornings.” Thank you for sharing!
I’ve been writing this since
the smell of lemon left my brain
the lemon that you used to clean
the lemon that you loved to spray through the house
10 years later my kitchen reminds me of you
The lemon cleaner, the lemon accent.
I love my kitchen because I love you
Katherine, I love that one scent has created that deep connection to love and kitchens. Lemon is a powerful scent, and what beauty and home it conjures up for you.
Katherine,
Oh, lemon. The sound of this word offers such a sultry-lingering feeling of repetition as I read it aloud. And I am also brought back to memories of Pledge-ing every surface on Sunday mornings as a kid. That scent is powerful in stirring memories in this “lemon that you loved to spray” and the “lemon accent.” The last line offers such an apt closing in “I love my kitchen because I love you.”
Peace,
Sarah
OMG, who would’ve thought to go back to the scent of lemons in our mother’s kitchens. This is fantastic! You have reminded me to get a bag of lemons from my friend’s tree to share with my coworkers! Lemons are a God-sent scent for all to love!
🍋Love it! Thanks, Katherine!
Stacey, thank you for hosting today. Your last stanza is heart-breaking yet such a reminder of the heart of our homes.
i’ve been writing this since
my addiction, my afternoon
snack, of buttery, salted dough
nockerl, not gnocchi, nor spätzle
filled my plate, stuffed my gut
lengthened my heart
i’ve been writing this since
seeing you wrap your thighs
around the giant bowl
muscle stirs, bubbly scoops of
a moist flour before you
plopped it into boiling water
i’ve been writing this since
you taught your great-granddaughter
before she mastered
this process herself
before she proclaimed cooked
nockerl smells like Oma
“i’ve been writing this since
seeing you wrap your thighs
around the giant bowl”
oh! What a great, powerful image. I had to read it twice to understand what was going on because only a couple times I’ve seen this happening IRL. I think I have an addiction to anything buttery, salted, and flour based too.
Oh, Stephanie, I love the idea that your nockerl addiction “lengthened my heart”. The image of Oma with her thighs wrapped around the giant bowl is so amazing. Your poem addressing your grandma inspired my form today.
And are you the great-granddaughter?
Stefani,
The image of “wrap your thighs/around the giant bowl.” You could have written legs, but thighs is another scene entirely for some reason. Love this.
Sarah
Hi Stef,
Yes, yes, yes to the “muscle stirs” and how you bring to us this special time! I loved the opening because I wasn’t sure if you’d be doing the cooking in your poem or someone else. Loved seeing your Oma through this process! 🥰
Stacey, thank you for this memory poem. PS — I heard my mom slamming the drawers in frustration.
Kevin
Rattled, the knives
in her kitchen cabinet
drawers disappeared
when she needed
them, most;
We little cared
about jam or the last
smudges of peanut
butter at the bottom
of the jar, only that
the flat blade edges
lifted stuck stones
and rotted sticks
– the dull edge as scalpel
and our fingers, steady —
revealing a tapestry
of bugs and roots
and wonder
Kevin
PS — we were away all last week, I missed a whole slew of interesting prompts that I hope to wander back to
We missed you!
I love how you described your uses for the knives. Reminds me of something my father and his brothers would have done.
Oh, the loss of knives, but I can’t help celebrating the outdoor wonders discovered with them.
I’m thinking of all those times I run for the butter knife when I need a flathead screwdriver. Cleaning fingernails and lifting stones and rotted sticks work too, and as bug rearrangers, even cutting the roots of plants and pruning them with a sharp one. You always think outside the box….or silverware drawer….or kitchen, and you deliver a unique surprise.
bwahahahahaha! That’s such a real poem. I always say that my Mom could fix anything with a butter knife. Our drawers were always light on butter knives too. Your poem brings it all back. The joy of being a kid and just using what made sense in the play is rich.
Kevin, so much fun to recall the backyard shenanigans of my childhood. I love that you took the knives. I always took the baking tins and made mud-berry pies. Thanks for reminding me of how much fun being a child was!
Welcome back, Kevin.Another value of the site is that Sarah archives past posts so they are searchable. Send her a note.
Ah, multipurpose kitchen tools! What memories.
Oh Kevin…I love this piece about knives and the value they carry for outdoor exploration. “Revealing a tapestry of bugs and roots and wonder.” Yes!
Hi Stacey, thank you for the prompt that allowed me to go back to something I wrote a few years ago and revise it a bit. Your poem is beautiful, I love that it spans from when you were a child, through different parts of you and your mother’s lives.
Mexican-American Kitchen Snapshots
I’ve been writing this since
the other side of the family
started gathering pieces of
writing about different topics
back in September 2020 after
my first attempt at Verslove when
I had more poetry under my belt.
The prompt was about kitchens,
and I wrote about my Grandma Mary.
Who lived with us until I was fifteen.
When I started writing this,
she was already gone.
Grandma Mary in the kitchen
cooking dinner in her
white and blue checkered waist apron
but also face done up, always
wearing maroon lipstick,
powder, blush and always
with sharp, red nails.
Untouchable.
Grandma Mary making tamales
and menudo for holidays.
The pungent, musky, fatty
smell of menudo permeating the air.
Bubba hated it for a long time.
This is what he said:
Waking to menudo Saturday mornings
was immediately visceral.
The heavy stench would linger on the walls,
creeping into my bedroom
so that the only escape was outdoors.
Just imagine how boiled tripe
and pig feet can smell
Sour and dense
But now I love it
It realigns and sticks to your bones
Like it sticks to the walls
Hangovers don’t stand a chance,
as the oils squeeze the vestiges
of the previous night through
your sweat glands
warm and fuzzy.
I appreciated menudo always.
I don’t eat tamales anymore.
They’re never as good as hers.
Not too much masa,
not too much meat,
equal proportions,
melt-in-your-mouth flavor.
Making tamales was an all-day affair.
A group setup spreading the masa,
grandma preparing the filling,
then assembling.
Grandma Mary
boiling tomatoes
and blending up fresh salsa
with onion, jalapeno, cilantro
and spices.
Grandma Mary’s everyday meals
of fideo or guiso or entomatadas.
I couldn’t tell you the last time I had fideo,
probably in Arizona, more than twenty years ago.
The oily noodle soup with ground beef,
simple yet satisfying.
When I no longer lived with her
I started making guiso and
entomatadas on my own.
Guiso is just chicken thighs cooked with
flour, chili powder, garlic salt and water.
Serve it up with tortillas.
Chili powder is the foundation for every meal,
just like she was for us.
Entomatadas are crushed tomatoes
or flavored tomato sauce,
cojita cheese, and corn tortillas
wrapped up like enchiladas.
I didn’t really help in the kitchen,
but I remember being there.
I just liked to look and smell,
take it all in as a kid.
I was an observer and a taster,
and I wish I’d been more participatory.
But Grandma Mary liked to cook alone
and never once did she complain.
Angie, first: Bubba. I want to read more about him. These lines are golden nuggets:
But now I love it
It realigns and sticks to your bones
Like it sticks to the walls
Hangovers don’t stand a chance,
as the oils squeeze the vestiges
of the previous night through
your sweat glands
warm and fuzzy.
He is a character, a voice that begs a face, begs more stories. He has a way, through your words, of telling us some things about life that we all need to know – how to acquire a taste of something and how to squeeze around a hangover. You could have a whole series on Bubba – he is no underdog. I think you have invented a new form of poetry that I absolutely LOVE and I think kids would enjoy in class. This seems like memoir, fiction with character, and news flash all at once, with culture sprinkled throughout. The way you have worked this on Grandma Mary with her maroon lipstick is colorful and fun! Bring Bubba and Mary here anytime!
Kim, thank you for saying these things about Bubba. Some of you would love him, some of you would hate him. I wrote about him the other day, the one who drank a lot and could never handle it. He hasn’t drank in 2 years, but even though you say he has a way of telling us things we need to know, like he did for kids every day he used to be with them, imagine they were taken away from him. Something I struggle with every day, not being there for him, not helping in different ways in the past so that this wouldn’t have happened. Anyway, thanks <3
I feel like I’d love your Grandma Mary, Angie! All put together, down to the lipstick and red nails, cooking up wonders for the family…your food descriptions are mouth-watering. Bubba’s hatred of menudo reminds me of my own first reaction to collards cooking…yeah, it will drive you outdoors, which is where I ran as a child. Like Bubba, I learned to appreciate this food after all and now the smell is pure nostalgia. Every snapshot here is so vivid and real…I can see steam rising.
This is absolutely wonderful…full of memories. I’ll bet each of these stanzas could be expanded into chapters worth of memories. This is a kitchen I’ve never been in except through your poem. I want to taste the menudo and that tamale and the sauce…with lots of cojita cheese, please. I can imagine a kid with big eyes and ears taking in the details…not even knowing she’s a writer yet.
Angie, what a beauty. It’s like your memoir of food and joy and Grandma Mary. I love the details of some of the dishes (recipes), for I have not heard of some of these. Thank you for sharing. I want to try entomatadas. This is everything: “Chili powder is the foundation for every meal, / just like she was for us.”
Angie, I was not ready for the line “she was already gone.” I felt we’d just barely met her in your poem and then she was no longer there. But then you give her back to us in each following stanza, in the foods she prepared, in the staples as she was in the kitchen and your life. I love seeing you taking in all the smells as a taster and observer, your little self watching the magic unfold.
Angie, my goodness, you have given us a treat and now I want to EAT!!! It’s not even breakfast time for me and I’m wanting something delicious from Grandma Mary’s kitchen.
Thank you for sharing so many delectable dishes and memories. I am a huge fan of chili powder too so this felt good when I read it:
Bubba! Wow! He nailed that description like a poet himself.
Thank you, again. There’s so much to enjoy and appreciate about your Grandma Mary, bless her soul.
😋
Angie,
You have taken us on a Mexican food walk and in doing so, have bubbled up some memories of visiting my Arizona students and sitting on the kitchen floor eating tamales and drinking Tecate beer because they had no table. All these shared memories have me dining in my mind, both on the savory and the icky, evoked by these stellar lines:
“Just imagine how boiled tripe
and pig feet can smell
Sour and dense”
Those lines remind me of the head cheese poem I wrote in this space. I wish I were more like your grandma who “liked to cook alone / and never once did she complain.”
Stacey, this has been the best month of prompts I can ever remember – yours today is one great example of just the kind of nudge that sends minds careening into memories of growing up, of conversations around a table, of the clinking of silverware and tinkling of ice cubes, of the steam rising from coffee cups. Your lines
numb your suffering
and magnify ours
send me back to yesterday, when I wrote about that similar need to be selfless in the final days of love when we are losing a family member – to make the crossing peaceful and laden with moments are sacred. Thank you, friend, for hosting us today and for investing in us as writers. I chose an etheree form for today ~ an ethereal etheree.
A Lock of Hair
there, hidden in the cakes and pies section
of Mom’s Gold Medal recipe box
with all the family secrets
an unsealed blue envelope
holds tender gold tendrils
~ cherished childhood hair ~
ethereal
long blond strands
of me
steeped
in
love, one
remaining
wisp of a child
blended, kneaded, shaped,
her own recipe for
disaster. ~ aproned kitchen
ancestors gather still to check
on this bun baked through all their ovens:
did she fall? did she rise? did she turn out?
“An ethereal etheree”?!?! Amazing. Do you decide that you are going to write an etheree before you start writing or start writing then choose the form? It works so well.
“aproned kitchen
ancestors gather still to check
on this bun baked through all their ovens:
did she fall? did she rise? did she turn out?”
The image of the ancestors with aprons, just like mine, checking on how you turned out. Ughhh so lovely, Kim 🙂 Hope you are feeling better.
Kim, where else would we find you but the cakes and pies section – the sweetest place in the whole box, the place where we want to spend most of our time, the place we’d prefer to start if given our druthers about eating order! Your ethereal etheree captures the shaping of you in such wonderful detail, the wisp of the child, the shaping of her, the long line of those who came before her still checking in (I love imagining that!). And of course you turned out (see all the reasons I listed above about your location in the recipe box), how could you not with such a caring family tree.
Kim, how precious to find the lock of your hair tucked in with the recipes. It begs for a poem – for this etheree that flows like honey from the comb. It’s just gorgeous. How perfect a metaphor — bun “through” the oven, a child, a descendant that the ancestors still gather to check on. They will be proud to see how she rises to every occasion, that she’s turned out so amazingly well, that she nurtures so many others (me included) in turn.
Wow…all those baking metaphors in the last lines are great…baked, fall, rise, turn out. What a great place to keep a little lock of hair. You’d have it and not see it–but it’s there where it can be found. A book of recipes–treasure box of mothers everywhere! This poem feels like a warm kitchen hug.
Oh, Kim, beautiful. Your hair in the recipe box is a unique treasure. And the image of the kitchen ancestors checking in on the bun in the oven is precious. Oh, yes, she turned out! …is turning out.
Hi friend! Kim, you chose the perfect form for such an ethereal expression of loving memories! I’m in love with the concept of buns baked through all their ovens.
Recently, I was listening to a message about how much our bodies hold from our ancestors and also how our bodies keep the score. Their pain, their love, their experiences are all “baked through all their ovens” and land in us in some form or fashion.
I am beyond grateful to sit with your precious poem and memories this morning. Thank you, Kim.
Kim, and with these words,
my applause.
Kim,
Your poem is a lovely companion to Linda’s as both offer memories of recipe cards, memories braided into our lives like that lock of hair you’ve woven into our day w/ your ethereal etheree. I love the metaphor of raising a child the way one bakes bread: “blended, kneaded, shaped.” You, my friend, have risen. Answer those last two questions, “yes.”
Kim, your last lines had me smiling. That end result is so anticipated especially when it comes to baking. What a wonderful way to open your poem with this very personal connection to your mother. Your words “steeped in love” really touched a chord for me. Lovely poem!
I have scads of stanzas…I’ll include just one. What a great prompt! So many memories…bitter and sweet. I love the thought of the cake covering a flaw in the table and how that flaw shows up more than once in your poem. What a great metaphor for family relationships. Thanks for the inspiration today.
…
Remember when I brought
one of the old typewriters
to the table to type out recipes?
I have your potato salad,
Mrs. Lissow’s pizza dough,
your zucchini bread
all those typed words that
I knew would be memories
I could eat someday
when I was hungry
for a taste of home…
Linda, I can see this scene, the old typewriter on the table and you busily typing out recipes, knowing how important they would be in the future. More than a food-chronicle…a chronicle of memory and love. So succinct and powerful.
Linda, memories for the eating when hungry for a taste of home is a metaphor that could be a book all its own. It’s fabulous the way you bring in the sound of the clicking of an old typewriter, too, kind of like the clinking of the dishes when we prepare meals….I also like that you bring in Mrs. Lissow. We don’t know her, but we understand that just like all those names we don’t know in cookbooks or our own mother’s recipe boxes, Mrs. Lissow offers gospel truth on pizza dough, and we trust her fully to be the expert we hope to be by using her guidance, her model of how it’s done. So, so much metaphor in old recipe boxes, right down to everyone.
Yeah, for typewriters and recipes!
I love that you typed the recipes. And I love the way you have worded the last five lines. “when I was hungry / for a taste of home” – mmm yes.
Linda, I am, of course, drawn to the old typewriter but it is the typing of words that become edible memories when you were “hungry for a taste of home” that is the perfect poetic metaphor for this prompt. Just beautiful!
Linda, just wow! I feel like this is one of the scads worth saving forever. I can’t believe all the memories that would flow from my thinking about the typewriter days! Thank you, Linda! I just may need to spend some time exploring my typewriter memories more.
Linda, what a perfect poem. I have scanned all my handwritten poems now, and they still conjure up feelings of home. “memories I could eat someday” Perfect!
Gorgeous. Simply gorgeous, Linda.
I remember those and the pace of sharing recipes was an art of community care, handed down one generation at a time.
Linda,
Those old recipes are historical artifacts, aren’t they. I still have a little box of cards, memories like yours w/ those timeless last lines:
“I knew would be memories
I could eat someday
when I was hungry
for a taste of home…”
Having typed recipes “for a taste of home” is so sweet. I love the specifics, including ”Mrs. Lissow’s pizza dough.”
Linda, your poem shows how visceral sensory images can be.
”words that
I knew would be memories
I could eat someday
when I was hungry
for a taste of home”
Thanks for sharing your memories that revive ours.
Stacey, this is a beautiful poem filled with memories gathered from the kitchen table and a beautiful prompt. I feel the love in every bit of this, even in the math struggles and the never giving up on you (or yourself). Thank you for allowing us to recall memories at our own tables.
Thumb Prints
I’ve been writing this since
whorls swirled across my
fingers, a result of
coming to be in early waters
since we sat side by side
at the kitchen table and
I watched your hands
next to mine as we crayola-ed
paper ornaments
your red staying neatly in the lines
smooth, soft, consistent
while mine shifted between light
and dark, hard and soft,
the colors exiting the lines
since my index finger trailed along
beside yours as you read
in an old house in Paris that was covered with vines
and I mouthed the words
lips forming vowels and consonants
I’ve been writing this since
I tucked my hand into yours
ran my fingertips along the veins
rising up beneath your skin
Since your hands guided mine
in a knit and purl pattern
as a skein turned into a scarf
and we shared thimbled protection
against needling cross-stitched patterns
and French knot embroidered stockings
since we dropped flour and sugar and butter
Into a bowl
rolling the dough into balls
egg-washed and pressed into chopped walnuts
our thumbs creating depressions
that would bake a deep golden
perfect little prints to brim-fill with jam
Jennifer, so much of this is like memories of my grandmother, this guiding and shaping that makes us, in large part, who we are today. I recall coloring outside the lines and so wanting to color neatly, like she did; oh, how you bring it back! And Madeline…I was just explaining to students this week that I don’t recall learning how to read, really, except that it all started with repeating books in verse that Grandma read to me. And then there is the dough, and the prints left indelibly behind…that’s exactly what I remembered and wrote of, today! Love how you fill yours with jam – incredible metaphor. That stanza about touching the “veins rising up beneath your skin” gets me the most…it’s so layered, so poignant; I so remember this, too.
Jennifer, your hands and fingers threaded through each stanza of verse, your proximity off space, your use of imagery to show us the shaping of you, and your use of alliteration and other literary device (skein to scarf is a favorite) is masterful here. I am in awe of the hands, the veins, the knitting, purling, the weaving of lifelines and timelines and the creation of….you…..as you learn the ways of being through the love of family. The reading of Madeline is so perfect here, these tender vines climbing that become a motif of growth, of climbing and rising – – and such a classic allows a universal nod of knowing, of remembering those special moments when someone read to us as we found ourselves fully immersed in these wrinkles of time that would become vivid memories. I could live in this poem.
So many beautiful lines here. I definitely love the image in the last stanza but this particularly stands out to me
“I’ve been writing this since
I tucked my hand into yours
ran my fingertips along the veins
rising up beneath your skin”
because I clearly remember doing this with my grandma’s hands, they were so smooth and the veins were prominent. Lovely.
What wonderful memories. I can feel the love in all the activities…and I love your verbing of crayola to crayola-ing. This poem reminds me of how important time is with little ones…those so little hands in big hands learning with love.
Ohhh, Jennifer, this is a keeper! I have a fascination lately with my hands resembling my mom’s and grandmom’s. Your poem takes me there, all the events of growing up and seeing the power of our loved ones hands.
I especially appreciated these lines and this experience because it shows not just the details of the coloring experience, but the distinct noticing of yours compared to mom’s.
Thank you for sharing such a delightful journey with us. 🌸
Jennifer, what a sensory trip we take through these experiences. The highlighting of fingers and hands and the unique beauty of the thumbprint of this relationship is so beautiful. I’m in awe how you move the title with such love and care through the poem to the end when you both make the thumbprint cookies.
Jennifer,
Immediately O found myself drawn to the ornament image: ”we crayola-ed
paper ornaments” and thought no others could be so beautiful, but you took us on a knitting and baking journey, memories that make possible the life of making you share w/ us as you stitch poems. Lovely,
😑 typo. “I”
Who doesn’t love details like this, Jennifer?
I am at that table. I know that table. Beautiful.
Jennifer, this poem brought me to tears (in a good way). It reminded me of my grandmother who loved to cook for me and her whole extended family.
I’ve been writing this since
I tucked my hand into yours
ran my fingertips along the veins
rising up beneath your skin
I did this with her hands
And now I’m doing it with my elderly mother’s hands…
Hoping I’ll remember always the way it feels
Thank you.
How beautiful this is, Jennifer. And how much it fills my heart with sadness that I never had experiences like this with a grandma. And, now, I’m wanting to rush time to have grandkids and give them these sort of memories. While I love the many rich descriptions of the things you did with your hands, I especially appreciate
Stacey, such a rich invitation, recalling the kitchen as the heartbeat of the home and the intimacy of sharing meals together…something I fear is lost in life today. Your kitchen table stands as a powerful metaphor for your mother and family love across time…those last lines, heartrending. It is during these times that the ordinary – an old table – becomes extraordinarily precious, for all it represents. So beautiful…
You reminded me of a favorite book about kitchen tables, so I borrow a quote from it in my poem as an epigraph. Thank you for this beckoning to the sacred gathering-place today.
Indelible
for Grandma
“Everybody is a story. When I was a child, people sat around kitchen tables and told their stories. We don’t do that so much anymore. Sitting around the table telling stories is not just a way of passing time. It is the way wisdom gets passed along. The stuff that helps us to live a life worth remembering. Despite the awesome powers of technology many of us still do not live very well. We may need to listen to each other’s stories once again.”
—Rachel Naomi Remen, M.D., Kitchen Table Wisdom: Stories That Heal
I have been writing this
all of my life
because you lived it first
and told me of the old days
the old ways
while you tore up the fish
on my plate, removing
every thin bone
lest I choke.
Your stories shaped me
just as you shaped the dough
for chicken-and-dumplings,
patting it tenderly into shape
leaving your handprints
behind
Fran, I got that book when you recommended it once or twice before, and I think I also got one about the grandfather as well. I need to delve back in to that reading – – it is indeed so heartfelt, like your poem. I see we both had a little kneading going on today….are we surprised? Chicken and dumplings – – oh, how I remember my grandmother taking the newfangled way of this and peeling the layers of the flaky biscuits and showing me how to use a pizza cutter to cut them into lines and put them into the pot. That wasn’t like her – – she always took the old fashioned way of doing things, but I think it was a license for me to look at simplifying some things, starting with chicken and dumplings. Your final lines, those handprints left behind, are so very precious……and the legacy continues in you.
Beautiful images in this poem – the tearing up of the fish as. a symbol of safety. the handprints in the dough. I love these lines, “Your stories shaped me / just as you shaped the dough”. Can totally tell how much she meant in your life. It reminds me of your relationship with your own granddaughters from what I’ve read <3
Fran, we were channeling the same stories in our writing today, of becoming from the very beginning all the way to the dough and prints. I can’t help but think further upon all the ways that hands shape us. The furthering of the old days with the old ways pulls up all the archaic parts of ourselves that we carry. The tearing of the fish (that choice of “tore up”!) and removing of every thin bone as if the structure was being taken apart comes before the tender shaping of dough and you. Such beautiful contrasting images.
leaving your handprints behind is beautiful. I love the quote you included above. It’s so true. We do tell stories around a table–or we used to.
Oh my! I absolutely adore the visuals your poem brings to me. There is something about these lines that resonated with me, as I recalled the force and desperation that my mom seemed to show when cutting up my meat (the meat was always tough)!
Love the movements from tearing up to patting dough with care. So lovely!
Thank you, Fran. 🤗
Oh, Fran, this is the magic of your poetry that I love so much. The handprints in the dumplings and in your life are beautiful. I imagine your granddaughters enjoying your stories as you prepare their plates.
This poem shapes all of us, Fran. Love the line,
wonderful.
Many of us wrote about grandmothers I notice.
I have been writing this
all of my life
because you lived it first
and told me of the old days
the old ways
Yes, yes, yes…may we always remember.
patting it tenderly into shape
leaving your handprints
behind
So beautiful. Thank you.
So much more happens—or should happen—at the dinner table beyond just eating and your poem certainly captures that.
Stacey — I love the choice of prompt you created, combing the memory with our past “I’ve been writing this…” … and your poem has me all choked up… that table where so much intimate news soaked everyone in love, loss, laughter, and sorrow. I have a busy day ahead but hope to carve out my mama memory poem… Heaven knows our lives were in the kitchen. Love and hugs, you star poet you. Susie
Even this response comment is poetic…”Heaven knows our lives were in…” is in itself a terrific prompt! Wishing you lots of words.
My dear Susie,
I love you and if you aren’t able to come back to write today, I totally understand. I have felt like April has given me ZERO quality writing time. Life is lifin’ as they say, but the math ain’t mathin’!
Hugs and stay in your zone of peace today!