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Posts Tagged ‘cooking’


 
 
With love, I score the insides of the eggplants
into diamond-shaped slashes and slather
the cut side with oil. With love, I crumble
tiny, fresh thyme leaves onto the sweating flesh,
then roast the halves till the dark, tight skin
pulls easily away. It’s heaven in the mouth,
the creamy, tender scoops of eggplant served
with garlicky buttermilk sauce and pomegranate seeds.
 
I want to believe even the smallest acts—
like sprinkling the tiniest bit of za’atar onto a dish
or sprinkling a real smile into any interaction
or making the call, or writing the letter—
yes, even the smallest acts can be part of
the greater change that infuses everything.

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Already bolted and wilting
in the heat, the spinach
is past prime and yet
on this first day of August
I’m able to pull two pounds
of triangular leaves
into my bowl, enough
for a generous pan
of creamy saag paneer.
Sometimes it’s not
too late. Sometimes
the world waits for us.
Sure, the stakes are low tonight,
but sometimes we get a glimpse
that things we thought
were lost are not lost
at all, not yet—just taste
that bright and earthy
green, so full of comfort,
so humble, so good.

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Rebuilding


 
Perhaps it is no Eiffel Tower,
no theory of relativity, no treatise
on law or philosophy of man,
but I did it, I constructed
the perfect recipe to turn fifteen cups
of fresh basil into a rich and delicate pesto,
the kind of pesto that makes fettucine
grateful to arrive naked to a plate
so that it might swim in such green.
The kind of pesto that makes me want
to eat it from a bowl with a cracker.
God knows I have failed before—
made it too lemony, too garlicky,
too salty, too thin. But this pesto—
built with dry roasted almonds
and lemon zest and parmesan cheese—
this pesto carries the taste
of every word I whispered
into the plants as they grew—
In each bite, I swear I taste the words,
“That’s right, you can do it.”
Despite drought. Despite frost.
Despite hail. Despite heat.
God, this pesto tastes like fruition,
like life itself triumphant.
It tastes like robust green luck.
I savor each bite, strong and bright,
I will it into my being.

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Dessert


 
Tonight it is cocoa powder,
flour, sugar and vanilla
that bring me and my daughter
together. The kitchen our mixing bowl,
time our whisk. The more we’re together
the more we laugh. How easily
distinct ingredients become a whole.
Easy as following a recipe
for chocolate cake, we slip
into the familiar banter,
the joyful two-step, the sweetness
we’ve been distilling since she
could first hold her own spoon.
In the air, hum of the oven preheating,
sound of us teasing, clang of the whisk
against the glass bowl. The cake,
it’s basically a delicious artifact,
a testament to this scent
of intimacy, like chocolate cake,
only much, much richer.

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Tonight I read

that Dolly Parton

always wears

high heel shoes

in her kitchen.

“Don’t you?”

she asks.

I don’t.

I wear old brown

wool slippers.

With orthotics.

I try to imagine myself

strutting into the kitchen

before the kids

go to school,

making smoothies

and scrambled eggs

in my yoga pants,

my long gray sweatshirt,

and my four-inch

lucite stilettos.

Click, click, click

go the heels

as I teeter toward

the tea cups.

Click, click, click

as I strut

with paper towels

to the place

where the cat

has retched.

Oh Dolly,

as I slip into

these high-heeled thoughts

I thank you

for dressing up the day.

They two-step

through the morning chores,

while meanwhile

my slippered self

marvels at the fun,

but shrugs—

she’s just so darn grateful

for her arch support,

for the rubber soles

that ground her

as she sweeps

up the crumbs,

as she wipes

the counters clean.

Grateful that when

the high heeled thoughts

start to sing,

they invite her

to sing along.

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turnovers

 

 

My own fault for not reading all the directions

on how to make puff pastry from scratch—

how after the shaggy dough phase, you shape

and then chill. And then roll and fold and roll

and shape the dough. And chill. And then roll

and fold and roll and fold. And chill. Then roll

and slice. And chill. And fill. And chill. So often,

mid project, I find myself thinking I would never

have started this project had I known

how long it would take. Flour on my pants,

on the floor, on the table.

 

Six hours later, nearly midnight, my daughter

and I baste the chilled triangles with water,

sprinkle them with cinnamon and sugar,

then put them in the oven at last. We are tired,

but the house fills with the sweet scent

of baking apple, the home-rich scent of crust.

 

What is life, but a big project we are in the middle of?

A project I’m in no hurry to finish.

In fact, these days are like puff pastry dough,

guiding me to take it slow, slower, to rest

between steps. I haven’t read all the directions.

For now I am laughing. It’s so much more

than I thought I was in for. But I’m here,

hands ready. I’m willing to work, to clean up the mess.

 

 

  • photo by Finn Trommer

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First, you must weigh everything.

Precisely. The butter. The water.

The sugar, the salt. You must

catch the mixture just as it boils,

then add the flour, sifted and weighed.

You must set the timer to dry the dough,

must add the eggs slowly, must not

let it be too dry, too wet.

There’s more, my friends. The angle

of the pastry sleeve, must be 45 degrees.

You need to use the French star tip.

And then, you must not open the oven

lest the steam escapes and the eclairs

don’t crust. So many musts. So many dos.

And still they don’t always turn out.

 

It is not at all the way I love you. Though

sometimes I’ve tried to find the recipe.

Though sometimes I’ve wished it

were as easy as measuring well and using

a timer. I have wanted to do it right.

I have studiously wanted to make yours the best life.

 

But the only way to be a good lover

is to love. It has nothing to do

with following directions. Has

everything to do with the doing.

Like making choux pastry dough

together. Taking turns at the stove.

Reading the directions out loud to each other,

four times. And then watching the dough,

astonished as it goes from slimy to smooth

to something sturdy that shines.

 

 

 

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Simple Tools

 

 

 

for Christie

 

I am so grateful for the rubber spatula,

the way it sits quietly in the drawer

yet is always ready for action—

is game to scrape the walls of the blender

or to fold chocolate chips into cookie dough.

It evens and swirls the frosting on cake

and welcomes the tongue

of a child. In a sharp world,

it knows the value of being blunt;

it knows that to smooth is a gift to the world.

Some people are knives, and

I thank them. Me, I want to belong

to the order of spatulas—those

who blend, who mix, who co-mingle

dissimilars to create a cohesive whole.

I want to spread sweetness, to be a workhorse

for beauty, to stir things up,

to clean things out. I want to be useful,

an instrument of unity, a means, a lever for life.

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The white sauce whisked to smoothness

before the cheese is added,

and the elbow noodles boiled till they’re al dente,

 

the Pyrex buttered with long looping swirls of the fingers,

the cheddar spread evenly on top.

It is not easy for most people to see

 

devotion in the mac and cheese.

It doesn’t look like prayer.

But it’s there.

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We begin by talking for an hour

about the kids, her church, dad’s health,

and how we both cry when we see acts of goodness.

We clean the kitchen. Address one mess

before starting the next. Then we peel apples,

marvel at their size—how much larger

they must be than in the time of Fanny Farmer,

who thinks we might need eight tart apples

for our nine-inch crust. Fanny, even a hundred years later,

you are still synonymous with precision,

organization and good food. And, as I recall,

you, too, practiced your art in your mother’s kitchen.

As it is, seven apples in 2018 are enough

to fill two generous crusts. Oh Fanny,

some things have changed, for instance

this Granny Smith, large as my fist. But some things

are exactly the same. A level teaspoon

is still a level teaspoon. The simplest recipes

are still often the best. And it’s still so good

to make a pie with your mother, talking

about all of life’s loose ends, measuring sugar,

filling the crusts, then cleaning up the mess

as the scent of sweetness touches everything.

 

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