Category Archives: images of food

Late Night Hunger: Nothing in the House to Eat

Nothing in the House to Eat

I pined, I whined, I opined I’d nothing here to eat.
No soup or chips or waffles. No ham or other meat.
I’d used up all my popcorn. I never buy baloney.
But looking in the freezer, I found some pepperoni!
When I went searching through the fridge, hidden back so far
that I could barely see it, I found a little jar.
Hidden behind the pickles, some pizza sauce that I
surmised was just enough to make a little pizza pie!
Some frozen cheese to top it, and some pita for the crust.
It seems that it was fated that a pizza was a must.
The toaster oven was just right for melding it together.
I dived once more into the fridge, intent on seeing whether
I had stuff for a salad, and I found some veggies shredded.
Fresh carrots and fresh cabbage—which were most swiftly wedded.
Balsamic and some blue cheese and olives from a jar
made a so-so salad only slightly below par.
The pizza cooked so quickly that I was quickly fed.
And now that I am sated, I think I’ll go to bed!

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Forgottenman made me post this! I need to learn not to tell him anything this late at night. He always decides it would make a good blog post!!!

Less Spice is Nice

 

Once I liked my dishes spicy,
but lately it is getting dicey.
As time progresses, I find it’s not
advisable to dine on “hot.”

Somehow, my tastes have seemed to tame.
It’s all those extra years I blame,
that turn me once more into child.
Please, make my taco extra mild!

 

Rerun. Lots to do today!The prompt today is mild

Feeding Love: Haute Cuisine

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Haute Cuisine

It seemed a meager portion for such a pricey place––
three peas, a single escargot. Potatoes? not a trace.
They’d spilled some brown stuff on the plate and dabbed a bit of green.
No wonder other diners all looked so very lean.

Two bites and the first course was gone, the plates all whisked away,
replaced by a sparse salad little more than mounds of hay.
A tiny slivered mass of yellow with seeds sprinkled over,
a spray of oil, some flower petals and a sprig of clover.

I looked my first date in the eye to see what he might think.
As he lifted a forkful, he gave a little wink.
We consumed their tiny lamb chops, complete with ruffled cuff
and scarfed the spoonful of dessert that wasn’t near enough.

He paid the bill, retrieved our coats and walked me to his car.
“I have another treat for you,” he said. “It isn’t far.”
He pulled up to McDonalds and ordered two big macs,
large French fries and two sodas and handed me the sacks.

Afterwards, at Dairy Queen, we sealed this new romance
with Butterfinger Blizzards and then a smoldering glance.
I accepted the next course with lips and arms most eager.
And what he served me next, my dear, was anything but meager.

I do not like posh restaurants with their nouvelle cuisine.
I find their foam and slivers and seeds and piles obscene.
Their single little vegetables hung on tiny racks?
I prefer larger portions and calories served in sacks!

And that is how we bonded, your Uncle Joe and I,
over Colonel Sanders, Taco Bell and carryout Thai.
Others may impress their dates with pricey gourmet suppers,
but my true love seduced with feasts of fast food filler-uppers!

The prompt today was meager.

“Diet”ribe

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“Diet”ribe

I have given up on oatmeal, overdosed on kale.
All these faddish food taboos have gone beyond the pale.
I do not count my calories, my glutens or my carbs.
The benefits for doing so are outweighed by the barbs.
I’m not turned on by Atkins. I can’t abide a fast.
I tried microbiotic, but the microbes didn’t last.

It’s become an epic battle when the girls go out to brunch.
It’s easier brokering world peace that where to go for lunch.
Before we take a mouthful, we must peruse all the ads
and compare what’s on the menu to the latest diet fads.
Then, once we find the perfect place and make the reservation,
Serafina calls me up to share her trepidation.

She’s started a new diet––something fabulously new––
and much as she hates to stir the pot, this restaurant won’t do.
We can’t go out for hamburgers. Laura’s a vegetarian.
She can’t abide the scent of flesh. She finds it most barbarian.
Of course, she will eat foodstuffs that are certified agrarian,
but salad’sout because my other friend is a fruitarian.

I asked them all to my house, bought exotic fruits and plums,
thinking a fruity salad would offend the fewest gums;
but a new friend cannot eat raw fruit. She finds it unhygienic,
and my artist friend will not eat foods she finds unphotogenic.
She balked at the rambutan and when she tried to swallow it,
choked and had to chug down a carafe of wine to follow it.

Molly is insisting on a diet ketogenic,
while Lucy won’t eat any vegetation that is scenic.
We’re reduced to no more dining out. Potlucks will have to do
with every guest providing whatever they can chew.
Me? I’ll bring a pizza. Pepperoni. Extra cheese.
And everyone can envy me as they eat what they please!

 

For dVerse Poets Open Link Night#204

Savoring Flavoring

Remember Dagwood making those midnight trips to the fridge, piling his “Dagwood sandwich” high with most things edible that came into his vision?  Or slumber parties where you tried to do the same and everyone ended up ill, to you mother’s great chagrin?  We crave the memories almost as much as the tastes, and perhaps this is what continues to drive us out into the night from our warm beds—exploring the hidden depths of our refrigerators for something special to savor. 

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Midnight Light

I wear darkness like a second skin.
It is the cloak that hides my midnight sin
as I make my way, barefooted, through my house.
Silent, lest I wake my dogs or spouse.

This way I know most well and so I bridge
in seconds that long gap between my bed and fridge.
Pull open that snug door and hear the plop
first of the rubber gasket, then the top

of the carton that has been my goal.
Spoon out its richness without benefit of bowl.
This darkness both of me and of the night
something the fridge dispenses with its light

as tears of joy and guilt and pleasure stream
down cheeks distended with this chocolate dream.
For minutes, I stand caught up in the hold
of this trio of pleasures: chocolate, creaminess and cold.

Until some motion jolts me from their grip.
I feel its pressure at my shoulder and my hip.
My spouse rolls over, shattering my dream
of midnight tryst with frozen cream.

Its chocolate savor is one that I try to keep
as I roll over once again to seek my sleep.
Whatever course my next dream serves, I’ll try it.
For I’ve already been one long day on this diet!

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The prompt today was savor. (Yes, you have perhaps read this poem before.  I wrote it three years ago.) The photos were harvested from the Internet.

What I Got Cookin’

I woke up with the lyrics, “Hey, good lookin’, whatcha got cookin’? How’s about cookin’ something up with me?” going through my head. Later in the morning, Yolanda caught me holding the paws of Diego, sort of dancing back and forth with him and singing the same lyrics to him, giving him a kiss on either side of his jaw between each line. I must admit, this went on for longer that just one repetition of the entire song. As a matter of fact I think I recall singing it at least three times. He was a willing recipient of all this attention and entertainment.

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When Yolanda finally could stand it no more and had to exit out to the patio, smiling broadly and laughing at my antics, it brought an end to the silliness. I restored Diego’s paws to their rightful resting place on the stone floor of the terrace and went back to whatever normal activity I was engaged in before the lapse into the Busby Berkeley imaginative actings-out of my youth.

But, around ten o’clock last night, those lyrics staged a return engagement in my brain with the result that I just had to bake a cake. Now, I must admit that I haven’t baked a cake in at least 15 years—probably longer, but since I had grated carrots as well as eggs in the fridge, carrot cake seemed a reasonable goal. Further checking of ingredients revealed that I lacked four of the key ingredients: crushed pineapple, butter, raisins and agave nectar. In addition, I’m sure the flour in my freezer was at least a couple of years old if not, in fact, 15 years old. My nutmeg was sadly out of date, but luckily I’d been prescribed cinnamon in capsule form to combat cholesterol, so I merely broke open a few capsules for the required tsp. and a half.

By now, it was firm in my mind that carrot cake was indeed what I should be cookin’, and so I figured out the proper substitutions. The solid canola-oil low-calorie spread would sub for butter. Cranberries would be better than raisins, and a mixture of low-calorie maple syrup, honey and sugar would do in lieu of the agave nectar. The closest I could come to crushed pineapple was a can of mandarin oranges which I cut into tiny pieces. I cut up a cup and a half of nuts, creamed the sugary products and eggs, poured spices, getting at least half on the floor, mixed ingredients and filled the cake pan.

Two hours after I had started, I pulled an almost-perfectly cooked carrot cake out of the oven–– Perhaps just a tad too dark around the edges, but firm in the middle and not really burned. Success! Now for the powdered sugar glaze. I tried three versions. The one mixed with pina colada soy milk tasted soapy. The one with orange juice and vanilla was too acid, the one with the juice of mandarin oranges too metallic. Finally I settled on green apple soy milk, a splash of vanilla and powdered sugar. By now I was almost out of powdered sugar due to my former testing of flavors, so I just sorta drizzled it over the top of the cake before cutting a section out of one corner. Hmm. It tasted not sweet enough, too light in texture and rather dry. The solution? I sprinkled the rest of the box of green apple soy milk over the top and popped it into the fridge to cool down and sog up a bit.

Well, yes, of course I cut a piece to taste first. Then another. I’m not sure, but perhaps later I came back for a third. Each time it tasted a bit better. I had a sinking sensation that instead of 1.5 tsps. of cinnamon that I’d added 1.5 Tbsp., but all-in-all, it wasn’t the worst cake I’d ever eaten. There was something about it that reminded me of the rather strongly odd-tasting cakes my 90ish year old grandmother used to bake. Once she had mistakenly substituted liniment for vanilla, but I think that was not her usual practice.

Yolanda had been in earlier and this is what the kitchen looked like after she had cleaned:

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And this is how it looked after I finished “cookin’ something up with me . . . “

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Actually, it looked even worse than this, but I had already cleaned up half the mess before okcforgottenman demanded that I take a photo. You know okcfm? He’s the one who a minimum of two times a day tells me, “That would make a good blog post. Did you take pictures?” Well, sometimes I take his suggestion, and this is one of those times.

Here, by the way, is the cake:

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okcfm says the words carrot and cake just do not go together in his mind.  Has he ever actually tasted carrot cake, I ask him and he says no, and he never will.  His loss, I think, but actually I’m not too sure I’d want to break him in on this one anyway.

Here’s my inspiration.  Have a listen.  It may make you want to bake a cake.  Or dance with a dog.