The palate palette,
wizard’s sleight,
fairest fare,
ocular bite,
art most toothsome,
evanescent,
conjured deftly
to gild the present.
More thanks to photographer and gastronome S.W. Berg.
And to The Baker’s Wife Bistro and Bar, Hampton, VA.
Category Archives: Food
February 19.22: Coping
It’s our mutual motto,
my furry confrère,
the words that we live by:
“it’s here somewhere.”
December 23.21: Coping
The lessons of childhood,
bothersome baggage,
surface at Christmas,
like this overworked adage:
patience is virtue.
It’s so over-rated;
too much have I wanted,
too long have I waited.
How is waiting
a motivation?
Yeast insists:
anticipation.
November 24.21: Coping
In the kitchen
live the ghosts
that waft with air
of pies and roasts.
Abiding still
in towel and platter,
in recipe card
with ancient splatter,
they hover close
and scrutinize
with furrowed brow
and x-ray eyes
my every move,
my chops and pares,
as I use things
that once were theirs.
And then they squeeze around
to eat,
they watch our manners
heads to feet,
then, with a wink
to everyone,
salute themselves
for job well done.
Here is the crowd in my kitchen this week: my mother’s recipe for stuffing in her handwriting, the towel my Grandma Mauck would wet and wrap over the turkey to keep it cozy, their baster and meat thermometer, the platter my Grandma O’Hern’s turkeys came to the table on. Three women at my elbows.
You will note the towel is linen. My mother and her mother insisted on linen dishtowels, and, yes, my dear incredulous reader, they had to be ironed. Ironed damp, no less. In my generation, the technical term for such things was “flatwork,” and it was how we served our ironing apprenticeships. Handkerchiefs, pillowcases and sheets, linen towels…flatwork. Yes, we ironed sheets and pillowcases. And underwear. As I hear it, young women today wouldn’t know which side of the iron gets hot. (They’re smarter than we were.)
But I digress.
It’s a difficult time no matter where you live, dear reader; I wish I could make things better for you, for all of us. You might not celebrate Thanksgiving Day this week, but you can know that I am giving thanks for you because you have helped me write, and that has been a huge gift to me. Thank you!
September 17.21: Coping
September stands tall
between spring’s childhood
and winter’s dotage,
a bit round perhaps
with pumpkin paunch,
its brow gold-speckled,
but vital still.
One leaf, two leaves,
abacus of mortality,
drop
in quiet obedience
to the authority of time.
A cicada sings of ennui,
its sleepy notes sticking to
wet morning air
where August lingers.
September 9.21: Coping
Harvest comes soon,
the greens rich and deep,
how touchable, sniffable
the twining leafed keep.
A scruffy-kneed gardener
with nails edged in black
beams notwithstanding
the crick in his back.
It’s ever a miracle —
don’t try to explain
how seeds and a longing
are linked in life’s chain.
With thanks again to my back-yard gardener son,
for both the photo op and the basil!
September 3.21: Coping
We were green once,
in salad days,
fixed firm to umbilical vine,
slowly orange,
until, soaked in sun brine,
we plumped to red.
All as written by some sightless scribe
ordaining how life seeds,
or maybe
by some deliberate kindness
in back yard dirt
that soul and body feeds.
Gardeners wonder.
With thanks to Shakespeare
and to my firstborn, Dennis, the backyard gardener.
September 1.21: Coping
The humble crumble
butter and flour,
sugar, of course,
for superpower.
Bumply roof
for muffin, cake
takes the edge off
pain and ache.
A sure Rx
for life’s annoyance,
transformative
to smile and buoyance.
There’s crunch
no matter where it’s put,
betwixt the teeth
or underfoot.
The perfect jewel
on nose or chin,
timeless fashion,
lap or skin.
Childhood’s lesson,
ever sweet:
it’s no fun
to be too neat.
Many thanks to Judy for her wonderful vegetable recipe!
May it be a blessing on your September, dear reader!
August 28.21: Coping
My son’s back yard
yields prodigiously,
vegetable-glutted
because rabbit-free.
So I have tomatoes
in my grandma’s old bowl —
what better emblem
of summer’s warm soul?
Such joy to the eye,
such promise of bliss —
the Louvre should have
such beauty as this!
August 24.21: Coping
Aesop says be like the ant,
eschew grasshopper ways:
the ant puts by and plans ahead,
grasshoppers waste their days.
The ants in frantic harvest
prepare for winter’s grey.
The grasshopper, all moony,
ponders the green of today;
in foolery like writing
does he his muse pursue;
he yearns to be a poet
and use words like “eschew.”
Many more thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.
I have no idea how he got the grasshopper to pose like this.
Oddments 