100 Food poems

Softly they come thumbing up from firm ground protruding unharmed. Easily crumbled and yet how they shouldered the leaf and mold aside, rising unperturbed, breathing obscurely, still as stone. By the slumping log, by the dappled aspen, they grow alone. A dumb eloquence seems their trade. Like hooded monks in a sacred wood they say: Tomorrow we are gone.

Terrace deep as the sky. Stone bench where I sit and read, I wandered by myself Into the heart of the mountains of Yoshino. In one hand a book, in the other, a bag made of newsprint— No weather-beaten bones here Just lychees bought in the market, Thirty rupees per kilogram. Stalks mottled red tied up with string, Flesh the color of pigeon wings— Sweet simmering. Sunlight bruises air Pine trees blacken. Where shall I go? The Dhauladhar peaks Are covered in snow.

We set up an assembly line. I heat the tortillas in manteca after Crystal dips them in chile ancho and drains them. Niles carries full plates of hot tortillas to his father, who rolls them around spoonfuls of filling. When we’ve finished the hot, greasy work, I pour the last of the sauce over neat rows of stuffed tortillas, sprinkle them with cheese, clean the stove and counters. The kids help their father rinse plates and pans. They don’t know this is the last time. The cheese melts. Crystal dances to “No More Lonely Nights” on the radio. Niles and his dad joke and wrestle. After grace, we sit before steaming plates. The kids stuff their mouths, insult each other, and laugh. We can’t avoid their eyes forever. Their father and I stare at each other across the table.

The victorious army marches into the city, & not far behind tarries a throng of women Who slept with the enemy on the edge Of battlements. The stunned morning Opens into a dust cloud of hooves & drums. Some new priests cradle Stone tablets, & others are poised With raised mallets in a forest of defeated Statuary. Of course, behind them Linger the turncoats & pious Merchants of lime. What’s Greek Is forged into Roman; what’s Roman Is hammered into a ceremony of birds Headed east. Whatever is marble Burns in the lime kilns because Someone dreams of a domed bathhouse.

When I put my finger to the hole they've cut for a dimmer switch in a wall of plaster stiffened with horsehair it seems I've scratched a two-hundred-year-old itch with a pink and a pink and a pinkie-pick. When I put my ear to the hole I'm suddenly aware of spades and shovels turning up the gain all the way from Raritan to the Delaware with a clink and a clink and a clinky-click. When I put my nose to the hole I smell the floodplain of the canal after a hurricane and the spots of green grass where thousands of Irish have lain with a stink and a stink and a stinky-stick. When I put my eye to the hole I see one holding horse dung to the rain in the hope, indeed, indeed, of washing out a few whole ears of grain with a wink and a wink and a winkie-wick. And when I do at last succeed in putting my mouth to the horsehair-fringed niche I can taste the small loaf of bread he baked from that whole seed with a link and a link and a linky-lick.

The fork lived with the knife and found it hard — for years took nicks and scratches, not to mention cuts. She who took tedium by the ears: nonforthcoming pickles, defiant stretched-out lettuce, sauce-gooed particles. He who came down whack. His conversation, even, edged. Lying beside him in the drawer she formed a crazy patina. The seasons stacked — melons, succeeded by cured pork. He dulled; he was a dull knife, while she was, after all, a fork.

I went to make kouign amann. It sounded Irish a

Imagine for a moment the still life of our meals, meat followed by yellow cheese, grapes pale against the blue armor of fish. Imagine a thin woman before bread was invented, playing a harp of wheat in the field. There is a stone, and behind her the bones of the last killed, the black bird on her shoulder that a century later will fly with trained and murderous intent. They are not very hungry because cuisine has not yet been invented. Nor has falconry, nor the science of imagination. All they have is the pure impulse to eat, which is not enough to keep them alive and this little moment before the woman redeems the sprouted seeds at her feet and gathers the olives falling from the trees for her recipes. Imagine. Out in the fields this very moment they are rolling the apples to press, the lamb turns in a regular aura of smoke. See, the woman looks once behind her before picking up the stone, looks back once at the beasts, the trees, that sky above the white stream where small creatures live and die looking upon each other as food.

Tonight, grave sir, both my poor house, and I Do equally desire your company; Not that we think us worthy such a guest, But that your worth will dignify our feast With those that come, whose grace may make that seem Something, which else could hope for no esteem. It is the fair acceptance, sir, creates The entertainment perfect, not the cates. Yet shall you have, to rectify your palate, An olive, capers, or some better salad Ushering the mutton; with a short-legged hen, If we can get her, full of eggs, and then Lemons, and wine for sauce; to these a cony Is not to be despaired of, for our money; And, though fowl now be scarce, yet there are clerks, The sky not falling, think we may have larks. I’ll tell you of more, and lie, so you will come: Of partridge, pheasant, woodcock, of which some May yet be there, and godwit, if we can; Knat, rail, and ruff too. Howsoe’er, my man Shall read a piece of Virgil, Tacitus, Livy, or of some better book to us, Of which we’ll speak our minds, amidst our meat; And I’ll profess no verses to repeat. To this, if ought appear which I not know of, That will the pastry, not my paper, show of. Digestive cheese and fruit there sure will be; But that which most doth take my Muse and me, Is a pure cup of rich Canary wine, Which is the Mermaid’s now, but shall be mine; Of which had Horace, or Anacreon tasted, Their lives, as so their lines, till now had lasted. Tobacco, nectar, or the Thespian spring, Are all but Luther's beer to this I sing. Of this we will sup free, but moderately, And we will have no Pooley, or Parrot by, Nor shall our cups make any guilty men; But, at our parting we will be as when We innocently met. No simple word That shall be uttered at our mirthful board, Shall make us sad next morning or affright The liberty that we’ll enjoy tonight.

My body is like a jackfruit swinging on a tree My skin is rough, my pulp is thick Dear prince, if you want me pierce me upon your stick Don't squeeze, I'll ooze and stain your hands