Category Archives: poem about food

Too Many Cooks

 

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Too Many Cooks
(The Food Critic Invades the Kitchen)

In the guise of  gourmand, I fear that you laid waste
to my soup’s exquisite balance after one swift reckless taste.
You lifted up the salt shaker and ruined my day’s work
by heavily over-salting my consommé, you jerk!
Then you made it cloudy by adding a fair dollop
of sour cream that sat there like a tumor or a polyp.
The soup base that I’d toiled over for many an hour,
you squeezed a bit of lime into, transforming sweet to sour.
So in the end when you pronounced the verdict on my soup,
rating it as less than gourmet food and more like goop,
you neglected to take credit for your efforts at its ruin.
Now I rue the day my lovely soup chanced to meet your spoon!!

Prompt words today are gourmand, base, guise and cloudy. Links are below:

https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2019/05/11/rdp-saturday-gourmand/
https://fivedotoh.com/2019/05/11/fowc-with-fandango-base/
https://onedailyprompt.wordpress.com/2019/05/11/your-daily-word-prompt-guise-may-11-2019/
https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2019/05/11/cloudy/

Advice to a Brand New Stepmom

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Advice to a Brand New Stepmom

Release your indignation. Try to quell your grief.
The air is redolent with clues of the impish thief.
Don’t you smell the bubble gum? Can’t you catch a sniff
of the perfumed hair gel that makes his hair so stiff?
Those two dozen cookies that you’d put in a stack
to package for the bake sale, I’d bet are in a sack
high up in the tree house in your own back yard.
The next time you bake cookies, you’d better post a guard!

 

The prompt words today are thief, release, redolent and impish. Here are the links:
https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2019/03/27/rdp-wednesday-thief/
https://fivedotoh.com/2019/03/27/fowc-with-fandango-release/
https://onedailyprompt.wordpress.com/2019/03/27/your-daily-word-prompt-redolent-march-27-2019/
https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2019/03/27/impish/

Retribution

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Retribution

He built himself a sanctuary in the old garage
to shelter from his mom’s complaints, his stepfather’s barrage
of insults that he spewed out whenever he drank beer
and his teenage stepson happened to be near.
He frequented the shadows of their viral house.
Took shelter in the attic, quiet as any mouse.
Hid out in the garden in a cave of loam.
Anyplace his stepfather was not became his home.

His meals lacked spice and savor also missing in his mother.
Her meals furnished nutrition, but very little other.
No laughter flavored mealtimes. The food rendered no spice.

He secreted small bits of food—a slice of bread, some rice—
to feed to his companions—a family of mice.
It was worth the beatings that he’d suffered twice
when that man not his father saw him hide away
some morsel in his pocket and said he’d have to pay.

 Raising his fist, he said he would take it from his hide
and gave another beating  to the boy who never cried.
The boy who simply stored it up—kept all of it inside—
bore the abuse stoically and then crept outside
to commune with his real family who lived in wall and  rafter
of the garage he’d made his home, and filled with love and laughter.
They came out at his bidding, swarmed around his feet
to eat a bit of porridge, some carrot or a beet.

Some crackers from his school lunch, some lettuce or a plum,
proved the presence of a heart that otherwise was numb.
Mice frequented his pockets and sat upon his shoulder—
every generation seeming to grow bolder.
They slipped into his mother’s house when she was sound asleep
and crept into those places where he could never creep.
They nestled in her shoes and chewed out all the toes,
severed all her bra straps, gnawed holes in all her hose.

They found the belt the monster man used to beat their friend,
dragged it deep under the bed and chewed it end-to-end.
When they crept into the larder to finish off the pie,
it must have been an accident that the can of lye
spilled into the sugar, pouring out in one fine stream
right into the bowl that would be placed beside the cream
on the breakfast table.  For how could it be
that vermin knew only the man took sugar in his tea?

 

The prompt words today are sanctuary, garage and nutrition.

https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2019/02/09/rdp-saturday-sanctuary/
https://fivedotoh.com/2019/02/09/fowc-with-fandango-garage/
https://onedailyprompt.wordpress.com/2019/02/09/your-daily-word-prompt-nutrition-february-9-2019/

Born-again Dieter

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My vegan concoction

Born-Again Dieter

My corpulent life style I now declare over.
I’ve taken an oath to only eat clover,
apples and carrots and barley and beans.
There will be less of me filling my jeans!
Instead of gorging, I’m going to be grazing.

I know the results will be just amazing.
So if you are willing and if you are able,
be careful, please, what you bring by my table.
Don’t pass near with ice cream or tiramisu

or I’m liable to accidentally waylay you
to survey your provender —those fruits of the cow—
just to “tsk tsk” your choices  with holier than thou
dieting lingo in loud fierce bravado,
eschewing your pancakes or your gado gado.
The world should bow down to my menu of choice

and if it doesn’t, in my loudest voice
I’ll be sure that you know what you could have chosen
that’s macrobiotic. That’s never been frozen.
That’s full of good fiber, sans sugar and gluten.

My mouth will be flappin’, my horns will be tootin’.
For now I’ve decided to be dairy-free,
I’ve decided the whole world should diet with me!!!

https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2018/12/27/rdp-thursday-corpulent/
https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2018/12/27/oath/

Java 101

Java 101

It was 1965, my freshman year at the University of Wyoming, and once again I was venturing out into the world by going home for the first time with a college friend. On our first night in her hometown, we dressed up and drove to the “Halfway House,” halfway between Worland and Thermopolis, for three inch steaks and, even though we were all just 18, because her parents had called ahead with permission, for one Sloe Gin Fizz or Tom Collins each.

The next morning, we awoke with aching heads and fuzzy tongues to the smell of coffee–Pat’s mother at the kitchen table pouring a cup for each of us, refilling her own mug, refilling the pot with water and more coffee and setting it back on the burner to perk.

For the four days we were there, the pot was never turned off between the hours of 7 a.m. and 10 p.m., and it was never empty except for the minute between pouring the last cup and filling it up to perk a new one.

We were a caffeine society predating the caffeine craze of the 90’s. The later craze coincided, not coincidentally, with the formation of Mothers Against Drunk Drivers and stricter drunk driving laws; but in the 60’s and 70’s, we drank coffee as an antidote to hangovers, not as a replacement!

It was a shared vice for which we could imagine no drawbacks. No calories. No fat. Pretty cheap. Unlike the cigarettes we all lit up to accompany our coffee drinking and talks around the table, there was not the least whisper of any negative effects of coffee. It kept us awake during studying for finals and during long nighttime drives between towns in Dakota and Wyoming and helped us wash down our NoDoz. (more caffeine!)

It would be thirty-five years in our future before we turned from those endless cups of hot java sipped from between swirling curtains of cigarette smoke. Driven by morning coughs, short breath and nagging doctors and kids, we would give up first the cigarettes, then, encouraged by aching joints, insomnia or too many trips to the bathroom, we would give up the coffee.

But still, the biting smell of coffee brewing in a pot or urn conjures up memories of Mack’s cafe, where endless chipped white mugs of coffee marked our maturity from preteens to adults. Those first 100 cups choked down while holding our breaths had inured us–initiated us–led to our addiction to and lust for caffeine–until we loved the acrid taste. Black. No sugar. Aspartame was just a future gleam in some chemist’s eye and no one had heard of latte, mocha, jamocha or espresso. No one had ever heard the word cappuccino except in an occasional spelling bee where it was misspelled along with the rest of the obscure words. Although everyone drank coffee, no one had yet iced it, foamed it or whip creamed it. No one had thought to float chocolate curls or cinnamon in it. We just drank it, like truckers, black–from the ever-plenteous pot.

This is a reblog of a piece from four years ago.

https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2018/09/07/friday-rdp-coffee/

Preposterous Vision

“Peyote Dream” Painting by Jesus Lopez Vega

Preposterous Vision

My friend Chuy says
it is peyote leached into the soil
the corn grows from
that gives Mexicans
such a remarkable sense of color.
The bright pigments of imagination
flood his canvasses.
His peyote dreams leak out into the real world
and wed it to create one world.
“Peyote dream” becomes its opposite—
a freight train taking us into the universal truth.
A larger reality.
This stalk of corn, this deer,
this head of amaranth,
all beckon, “Climb aboard.”

So when you bite into a taco
or tamale, when the round taste of corn
meets your tongue, and pleasure flows
in a lumpy river down your throat,
look up at what is standing in the shadows
and see that it is light that creates shadow.
See the many colors that create the black.
Follow where the corn beckons you to go—
into the other world of poetry and paint
and dance and music. Hot jazz with a mariachi beat.

Chew that train that takes you deeper. Hop aboard
the tamale express and you will ride into your
new life. It will be like your old life magnified
and lit by multicolored lights and the songs of merry-go-rounds
and when you bite into your taco, it will taste
like cotton candy and a snow cone
and your whole life afterwards will be a train that takes you nowhere
except back into yourself—a Ferris wheel
spinning you up to your heights and down again, with every turn,
the gears creaking “Que le vaya bien.”
I hope it goes well with you
and that you see the light
within the shadow
and the colors
in the corn.

For Fandango’s prompt: preposterous

Make it a Double (A Cywydd Llosgyrnog Poem)

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A Cywydd Llosgyrnog Poem is a syllabic-based Welsh form with both end and internal rhymes. Here’s the structure of this six-line form (with the letters acting as syllables and the a’s, b’s, and c’s signifying rhymes:

1-xxxxxxxa
2-xxxxxxxa
3-xxxaxxb
4-xxxxxxxc
5-xxxxxxxc
6-xxxcxxb

So lines 1, 2, 4, and 5 are 8 syllables in length with lines 1 and 2 rhyming as well as lines 4 and 5. Lines 3 and 6 have 7 syllables and rhyme with each other; plus, line 3 has an internal rhyme with lines 1 and 2 while line 6 has an internal rhyme with lines 4 and 5. Phew!!! There are no further rules for subject matter or meter. (I think they have rules enough, don’t you?

Here is my poem.  Poets in the crowd, may I invite you to try out this challenging form as well? Don’t forget that internal rhyme as well as the end rhymes!

Make it a Double

I must admit that chocolate
is still my favorite ice cream, but
when asked what I’d like to lick,
pistachio  is very good
and so it’s likely (if I could)
some of each would be my pick.

 

(I found the prompt HERE on the Writer’s Digest website.)