Posted in Uncategorized, tagged cooking, dinner, food, mac and cheese, poem, poetry, prayer on March 27, 2019| 5 Comments »
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.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged abundance, food, poem, poetry, potatoes, Ruby McHarg, sharing on January 1, 2019| 1 Comment »
The cupboards, she discovers,
have little to offer, but she
finds in a corner some purple potatoes,
and, on slicing them thin, finds
white and purple patterns
swirled like stained glass.
She approves. Pours oil
in the skillet. Nods at the splatter
when the potatoes slide in.
A cauliflower in the back
of the fridge. Yes. She breaks
off florets and adds them.
Some tofu. She crumbles it,
scrambles it, lets the foods meld.
Then lemon. Then rosemary.
Then chile. Then wait. She stirs.
She tastes. There are times
when out of what seems to be nothing,
we find magnificence. Enough
to share. Enough to make us think
abundance is hiding everywhere.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged food, poem, poetry, tomato soup on June 23, 2017| Leave a Comment »
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged conflict, food, human nature, poem, poetry on January 31, 2017| 3 Comments »
Tonight,
slicing ginger,
I think about
not thinking
about the news,
how I would then
sit down
at dinner
and look
around the table
at my family
and enjoy
this peanut sauce
on brown rice,
and for a while
I am two women
in one skin—
one who stews
about the supreme court,
one who thrills
in the hot pepper oil,
the way it blazes
on the tongue.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged childhood memory, food, love, mother, poetry, spam on January 8, 2014| 1 Comment »
I ate my string beans cooked too long
in cream of mushroom soup
and I ate soggy tater tots
and neon green fruit loops.
I ate cranberry relish
served in the shape of a can,
but please, mama, pretty please, I’d say
don’t make me eat the Spam.
I’d eat dip made from cheese food
on chips from Frito Lay,
I’d eat red Jello salad
with layers of mayonnaise,
I’d eat the bits of Jiffy Pop
burned on the disposable pan,
but please, mama, pretty please, I’d say
don’t make me eat the Spam.
One day when I had left the home
I teased my mom about
the way she served us processed food
when we were growing up,
like cans of Spam and beans and peas
from dusty shelves at the store,
Oh honey, she said, I wanted fresh food.
It was all we could afford.
