(click to visit Peanut Butter Lovers. com!)

November 30th already?  I’ve been having so much sticky fun, I hate to see the party end (sniff)!

Cornelius’ favorite: Ashdon Farms Peanut Butter Bears

This has definitely been the nuttiest November on record here at Alphabet Soup. So glad all you giddy goober peas emerged from your solitary shells, sent in poems, and feasted with us every Friday. At first I wasn’t quite sure whether I’d be spreading it on thick or thin, but thanks to all the generous Peanut Butter Poets, we had just the right amount of food to savor and digest each week. I’m so glad Father Goose Charles Ghigna initially suggested a Peanut Butter Poets Poll. It was the perfect excuse inspiration to turn a singles poll dance into a month-long poetry party.

Peanut Butter Cheese Ball via The Girl Who Ate Everything

We’re topping things off today with another lipsmacking menu that brings to mind Santa and his elves. Actually, Santa never had it so good with this bevy of beauties: Linda Baie, Cathy Ballou Mealey, Betsy Hubbard, Mary Lee Hahn, and Renée LaTulippe. And Santa himself? None other than our brilliant, beloved (and oh so cuddly) Children’s Poet Laureate, J. Patrick Lewis (who, BTW, is also this week’s Eye Candy)! No, we don’t mess around here. We serve up only THE BEST.

Are you ready?

Help yourself to a Peanut Butter Cup mustache (nibble gently, close your eyes, and think of Pat),

Mustache Peanut Butter Cups via Treats for My Sweets/etsy

put on these magic peanut slippers,

(One size fits all in Neverland)

and once again, go full-tilt, shell-shocked, cracked to the nines NUTS!

If peanut butter be the food of love, spread on . . .

* * * * *

♥ LINDA BAIE ♥

I have been all over the place with my likes through the years, but lately the best for my taste buds, with apples, is Jif natural creamy. I used to love chunky, but my grandson finally persuaded me to change, & I did for him, of course. For a treat, my daughter says to have honey roasted peanuts ground at Whole Foods. My friends who know how much I love peanut butter keep telling me to try cashew butter, but I still haven’t. Maybe someday! I am loyal to my PB.

PB THOUGHTS

peanut butter
yes, you oughter
add marshmallow
for fluffer-nutter

better than those other treats
it’s really really
good to eat
(jelly topping makes it sweet)

apple slices
will entice
when adding some
peanut delight

and do remember
when late at night
you feel the need
for something light

just dip a spoonful
from the jar
then add some Ritz
for a snackin’ blitz

it’ll fill your tum
make you hum
peanut butter
yum and yum

Copyright © 2012 Linda Baie. All rights reserved.

Linda at TeacherDance

Putting on the Ritz: (click for White Chocolate Peanut Butter Cookies via Flour Girl)

* * * * *

♥ CATHY BALLOU MEALEY ♥

I’m 100% neutral to the brand and smoothness or creaminess of the PB as long as there is an equal proportion of Nutella on the bread, toast, or waffle!

. . .  there is one last unfilled category near and dear to my heart, peanut sesame noodles. I fell in love with them at an MIT haunt called Mary Chung’s, where the addictive dun dun noodles with shredded chicken were an absolute mouth-burning must. I’d be remiss if I didn’t send you my ode to the ever-delightful, endlessly delicious Mary Chung dun dun noodles.

Mary Chung’s Dun Dun Noodles via The Fresh Dish

AN ODE TO MARY CHUNG’S

Peanut butter, sesame
Honey, scallion, dried chili.
Melt and stir them in the pot,
Add some noodles, boiling hot.
Shredded chicken — toss on top,
Yum yum dun dun — I can’t stop!

Copyright © 2012 Cathy Ballou Mealey. All rights reserved.

Cathy Ballou Mealey at bildebok

Chocolate Bread with PB and Nutella via Simple Daily Recipes

* * * * *

♥ BETSY HUBBARD ♥

I was excited to see your posts dedicated to peanut butter. I am a loyal peanut butter fan and am glad that so many people are giving it some due respect. I am a straight up creamy Jif girl.

(click for PB&J Cupcakes made with beets via Munchie Mashups)

A PEANUTTY MISTAKE

Peanut butter crunchy
peanut butter cream
peanut butter fluff
would be a peanut butter dream.

Peanut butter crackers
or peanut butter cake
but peanut butter beets would be a
peanutty mistake!

Copyright © 2012 Betsy Hubbard. All rights reserved.

Betsy at Teaching Young Writers

(click for recipe: Chocolate Cake with Beets and Peanut Butter Banana Saucy Frosting via What Will I Cook Today)

* * * * *

♥ MARY LEE HAHN ♥

My favorite brand is Naturally Nutty. They have amazing flavors and all kinds of nut butters, but my favorite is Butter Toffee Peanut Butter. It has flax seeds and hemp seeds in it to add to the crunch and the healthiness.

(click for PB and Fruit Sushi recipe via The Kitchn)

Peanut Butter Goes with ALMOST Everything

Four pairs
for my peanut butter
that you’ll never see:

liver,
oysters,
spam and
sushi.

Copyright © 2012 Mary Lee Hahn. All rights reserved.

Mary Lee at A Year of Reading

(click for Peanut Butter Sushi recipe by Lee Zalben via Serious Eats)

* * * * *

♥ RENÉE LATULIPPE ♥

It’s a good thing I’m not much for brand loyalty, since the only PB brand I’ve found in my area in Italy is the Dutch brand Calvé. And it’s gooood. Very dense and smooth (97% peanuts!) and yummy with strawberry jam. Only problem is that the jars are too small (Italians are not given to excess).

“Boxing Day” PBJ Sandwich by Lee Zalben via Nutropolitan Museum of Art

BUTTERLY LOVE

I suppose baloney
would do in a pinch
or even pastrami
piled an inch
high on some rye
a swipe of dijon –
that most fragrant
of sandwich-cologne
but I’d never betray
you, my legume love
now you spin me
in this nutty
OBSESSION
I’m jelly before
your butterly beckoning
and this is my
confession:
with cold cuts, pâtés,
spreads, I’m through
because, PB,
I’m stuck on you.

Copyright © 2012 Renée LaTulippe. All rights reserved.

Renée at No Water River

(click for Peanut Butter and Jelly Tart recipe via Culinary Concoctions by Peabody)

* * * * *

♥ J. PATRICK LEWIS ♥

Ho ho! Nothing finer than an off kilter recipe concocted by the one and only to officially ring in December merrymaking!

Pat: I’m a chunky kind of guy — literally! Ha.

Holiday Peanut Blossoms via Miss Moon’s Musings

CHRISTMAS PEANUT BUTTER COOKIE RECIPE

Though ingredients can be identified only under
electron microscopes not yet invented, try to find,
then combine:
An ebenezer of anti-humbug flour
A pot of rainbow residue
Unicorn tears
2 dew drops from a Middle-Earth flower
4 Chicken Little egg yolks
A learical of peanuts from the rare Bong-tree
A paradise of charlie brown sugar

Add entire contents to a sieve that’s been to sea.
Stir with the whisk broom of a garden gnome.
Roll into succulent circles, then spork.
Bake at 350° on INDESCRIBABLE.
Let cool past impatience.
Share (if you must).

If recipe fails, add wit and good cheer.
Otherwise you will spend a dreary Christmas
with dullards like ginger snaps, Pfeffernüsse,
and, give me strength, Aunt Mae’s fruitcake.

Copyright © 2012 J. Patrick Lewis. All rights reserved.

J. Patrick Lewis’s Official Website

Christmas Peanut Butter Reindeer Cookies via Best Friends for Frosting

* * * * *

Was that as good for you as it was for me? Oh, so magical! I especially love “the whisk broom of a garden gnome.”

Wonder if you can smoke those Bong-tree peanuts?

It was also interesting to hear what things peanut butter does and does not go with, and to have Cathy add some spice to the mix. I’ve since learned about a few other combinations I’d be hesitant to try, among them, PB with pickles, olives, Marmite, horseradish, and onions (Ernest Hemingway liked thick slices in his PB sandwiches). But I really need to break out of my PB&J-only mindset, since PB is great in soup (made my first batch recently) as well as in stir fry sauces and salad dressings. I will heretofore follow up on all my “butterly beckonings.”

photo by Tony Cenicola/NYT

Good to know: New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg’s preferred last meal would be Toasted Wonder Bread, melted Skippy Super Chunky PB, bananas and bacon (he’s an Elvis-y kinda guy).

But wait! There’s more!

* * * * *

“PB vs Jelly” by Lee Zalben via Nutropolitan Museum of Art

♥ PEANUT BUTTER POLL RESULTS ♥

Truth be told, choosy moms are still choosing Jif®. It’s touted all the time as America’s #1 favorite and our poll confirmed that. Jif was an early frontrunner and never lost its lead. Second to Jif was the “Other” category, followed by Skippy, Peter Pan, and last, lonely Smuckers. More Jif fans preferred creamy to crunchy.

Of those who chose other brands or had no particular brand preference, more females liked chunky/crunchy, disproving the theory that women usually go for creamy.

These crunchy “other brand” females also tended toward the all natural options, breaking from tradition and hydrogenation, often eschewing salt and sugar, embracing the formerly male-dominated chunky hunk peanut butter world.

I am woman, watch me shatter the jar.

The willingness of both genders to try new brands reflects a more health-conscious, food-savvy society taking full advantage of the seeming endless variety of choices currently available. Among the U.S. brands mentioned:

• Teddie
• MaraNatha
• Crazy Richards
• Naturally Nutty
• PB2 (powdered form)
• East Wind
• Trader Joe’s
• Smart Balance
• Planter’s

Sheesh! I’m old mature enough to remember when Skippy ruled supreme and how big a deal it was when Jif first came on the scene (1958). Needn’t feel sorry for Smuckers brand — the J.M. Smuckers Co. owns the Jif trademark along with a whole bunch of others (Pillsbury®, Crisco®, Dunkin’ Donuts®, Folgers®, et. al.)

This poll was so much fun, I’ve decided to do a different poll every week, so please visit the sidebar often (and bring refreshments)!

* * * * *

STICKY THANKS ONCE AGAIN TO ALL THE PEANUT BUTTER POETS!! AND THANKS TO EVERYONE FOR CELEBRATING PEANUT BUTTER LOVERS MONTH WITH US HERE AT ALPHABET SOUP!

♥ Seriously good: Nora Ephron’s favorite Peanut Butter Sandwich Cookies (via Epicurious)

♥ Don’t miss “15 Ways with Peanut Butter” at Cooking Light for more great recipes.

♥ New book alert: Creamy & Crunchy: An Informal History of Peanut Butter, the All-American Food by Jon Krampner (Columbia University Press, 2012)!! Jon shares his original recipe for a “Simon and Garfunkel” sandwich at the Peanut Butter Lovers blog.

* * * * *

Our favorite Peanut Butter and Jellyfish poet Amy Ludwig VanDerwater is hosting today’s roundup at The Poem Farm. Please take her this Peanut Butter Nutella Cupcake:

(click for recipe via Your Cup of Cake)

Do you think it’s big enough? Enjoy all the poetic goodness and keep spreading the love!

Click this icon in the sidebar anytime you need a PB fix and would like to reread the poems!

Always and forever, NUTS TO YOU!

———————————————

*Peanut Flat Slippers via BuySlipper.com

Copyright © 2012 Jama Rattigan of Jama’s Alphabet Soup. All rights reserved.

“My greatest strength is common sense. I’m really a standard brand — like Campbell’s Tomato Soup or Baker’s Chocolate.” ~ Katherine Hepburn

For my first Poetry Friday post of 2013, the best first course I can think of is a warm, comforting bowl of tomato soup. It’s pretty iconic as soups go — simple and undemanding, it hits the spot on snowy wintry days, has the power to transport us to childhood lunchrooms, and loves to tango with a good grilled cheese sandwich. It became our official soup because of its deep color and accommodating thickness, providing the perfect cushy bed for alphabet pasta.

Back in 2007 when I first polled fellow writers about their favorite soup, tomato was the clear winner. Nothing like a mom-approved bowl of certainty to ward off loneliness and self doubt. A very good reason to put on your favorite bib today and enjoy Mark Irwin’s savory, minimally seasoned poem. Thank goodness for something basic we can count on!

TOMATO SOUP
by Mark Irwin

The simplicity of unadorned taste:
tomatoes, flour, salt. Unceremonious
and so unlike an English stew.

No hidden bones, chunks of meat.
No skeletons in our closet,
Can of soup, can of water.

You eat it after doing simple things:
skating, skiing, or just taking a walk
down a street of look-alike homes.

No iron kettle to hide ingredients.
A stainless steel pot on an electric range
works best. Do not add salt or pepper.

The simplicity of unadorned taste.
We love it the way the Italians
love tomato sauce with basil:

as a stronghold of culture,
a stubborn remembrance of revolution,
of green vines tied to stakes
and the pendulous warm red fruit.

~ from Quick, Now, Always (BOA Editions, 1996), first appeared in Atlantic Monthly

via dbesa

Tasty, no? Okay, you’re all set. Sally forth and have the best year ever — and Happy National Soup Month!

Do you think I should get one of these buntings for my official blog uniform?

* * *

The inimitable, infinitely talented, Yeats-loving Renée LaTulippe is hosting today’s Roundup at No Water River. She is probably, at this very moment, lapping up some of the aforementioned tomato sauce with basil in her cozy Italian hideaway. I’m dreaming of an Italian Grilled Cheese-n-Tomato Sandwich to go with my tomato soup: bring on the olive oil, garlic, and smoked mozzarella! Enjoy all the poems, have a delicious weekend, and Buon Appetito!

* * *

♥ Don’t forget to take my Soup Month Poll in the sidebar! Do you have a favorite tomato soup memory?

♥ Famous Tomato Soup lovers: Mariah Carey, British golfer Nick Faldo, Steve Forbes, actress Melissa Joan Hart, British newspaper magnate Lord Beaverbrook.

——————————————

* Tomato Soup Bunting Costume via Costumes4Less.com.

Copyright © 2013 Jama Rattigan of Jama’s Alphabet Soup. All rights reserved.

Since I’m a big fan of Nicole Gulotta’s uncommonly delicious literary food blog, I was tickled pink when she agreed to do a guest post featuring a children’s poet. Each week at Eat This Poem, Nicole serves up delectable original recipes inspired by poems, each post an elegantly written, thought-provoking blend of insightful analysis, personal anecdotes and gorgeous photography. When I learned Nicole had decided to feature Amy Ludwig VanDerwater’s “Apple Pockets,” I asked Amy to tell us a little about the poem:

“Apple Pockets” is actually in [Lee Bennett Hopkins's] SHARING THE SEASONS, and it’s based on walks we take here on our property. We live on an old farm, and there’s a small grove of wild apple trees bordering the forest. I like imagining the people who lived here before us: what they thought about and who they loved.

I know you’ll enjoy today’s doubly delightful feast featuring one of my fave food bloggers + one of my fave poets!  Guess what I’m having for breakfast this weekend?

* * *

♥ Guest Post by Nicole Gulotta ♥

The first time I made these apple muffins, I had just started experimenting with whole grain flours in my baking. Since then, I’ve fallen in love with buckwheat pancakes and whole grain crackers, but it was a batch of muffins that helped me ease into embracing healthier baked goods.

When I read Amy Ludwig VanDerwater’s poem “Apple Pockets,” I remembered these muffins. Her poem is deeply reflective, a nice state of mind to be in as a new year begins. The speaker isn’t just walking around with apples in her pockets, but the apples themselves help transport her mind to an orchard where “a hundred years ago they picked these apples.”

* * *

Apple Pockets
by Amy Ludwig VanDerwater

This morning I have apples in my pockets.
I feel them round and ready and remember
That every year for years (with apple pockets)
The people walk this orchard in September.

A hundred years ago they picked these apples
Small children skipping on their way to school
Young families coming home from Sunday church
Old lovers holding warm hands in the cool.

And when I walk alone I sometimes see them
With apples in their pockets and their skirts.
And when I’m quiet sometimes I can hear them
With merry laughs and boot-scuffs in the dirt.

I reach up for an apple and I twist it.
I bite into the white and taste September.
This morning I have apples in my pockets.
I feel them round and ready and remember.

~ Copyright © 2010 by Amy Ludwig VanDerwater. First published in Sharing the Seasons: A Book of Poems, selected by Lee Bennett Hopkins, published Margaret K. McElderry Books. All Rights Reserved.

* * *

I’m sure you can relate to the experience of standing in a place that so many others have before you, either while traveling, visiting a historic landmark, or even thinking about the families that may have lived in your home before you. My favorite phrase in the poem, “I bite into the white and taste September,” articulates how strongly scent and flavor can be tied to our memories. Like the speaker tasting a bright autumn day, I remembered these apple muffins, and how they have sustained me through many car rides and flights across the country, rushed mornings headed to work, or a leisurely weekend afternoon, which is perhaps the best time to enjoy them.

 Apple Crumb Muffins

Adapted from Ellie Krieger

Makes 12-14 muffins

3/4 cup plus two tablespoons packed brown sugar
1/4 cup chopped pecans
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 cup whole wheat flour
1 cup all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
2 large eggs
1 cup organic applesauce
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
3/4 cup buttermilk
1 apple, peeled, cored and cut into 1/4-inch pieces

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees, and line a 12-capacity muffin pan with paper liners.

In a small bowl, mix together 2 tablespoons of the brown sugar, the pecans, and cinnamon. In a medium bowl, whisk together the flours, baking soda, and salt.

In the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, mix the remaining 3/4 cup brown sugar and oil until combined. Add the eggs, one at a time, whisking well after each addition. Mix in the applesauce and vanilla.

Add the dry ingredients in two batches, alternating with the buttermilk. Blend until just combined, then gently stir in the apple chunks with a wooden spoon.

Pour the batter into the prepared muffin pan and sprinkle evenly with the topping. Bake for 20 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean.

* * *

Nicole Gulotta is a grantmaker by day and gourmet home cook by night. She received an MFA in creative writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts and a BA from the University of California, Santa Barbara. In 2011, she founded The Giving Table, a website that helps people change the food system through personal philanthropy. She is based in Los Angeles, where she lives with her husband and French bulldog.

Visit Eat This Poem and sign up for The Right Brains Society newsletter, which features musings on topics like reading, writing, poetry, blogging, living a creative life, how not to hate your day job and other inspiration.

* * *

♥ Poetry Friday regulars may also be interested in seeing Nicole’s post featuring Charles Ghigna’s poem, “Hunting the Cotaco Creek,” which she paired with Butternut-Leek Soup.

* * *

The always welcoming and lovely Tabatha Yeatts is hosting today’s Roundup at The Opposite of Indifference. Sashay on over to check out the full menu of tantalizing poetic offerings on this week’s menu. Have a good weekend!

* * *

This post is also being linked to Beth Fish Read’s Weekend Cooking, where all are invited to share their food-related posts. Put on your best bib and join the tasty fun!

————————————————-

Copyright © 2013 Jama Rattigan of Jama’s Alphabet Soup. All rights reserved.

Mini Rosemary Heart Biscuits From the Little Yellow Kitchen (click for recipe)

WHAT WE ALL SAY
by Irene Sherlock

There’s nothing to eat, my daughter says, standing in front of the refrigerator, motioning at the bag of carrots, three red apples. She means pork chops, mashed potatoes, food I made before the diet, the divorce, before I turned thin. People smile, congratulate. You look wonderful. They seem relieved, as though my heavier self was somehow a burden to them. How did you do it? As if I’ve broken world records. I tell them thin is lots of water, no butter, endless exercise, bowls of clear soup. Day in, day out, except for occasional graham crackers, thin is never sweet. They shake their heads, Ten years younger, not knowing most nights I go hungry, except last night, at a friend’s house, after Chardonnay and wontons filled with artichokes and crab, after rosemary biscuits, herbed chicken stuffed with prosciutto, sautéed in shallots and cognac. After all the love had been laid on the table, I felt my old self emerging — the woman who loves chocolate, who looks her age and surprises her daughter with blueberry pie. Her mouth watered as mine does now. Mmmm, I said, and began to eat and eat as though, now, I can never be filled.

*Posted with permission of the author, copyright © 2012 Irene Sherlock. First published in Alimentum: The Literature of Food (Winter 2012). All rights reserved.

Classic Blueberry Pie via Thibeault’s Table (click for recipe)

* * *

Certainly, food is love. Most of us love to eat. We cook for our loved ones, comfort and love ourselves with our favorite treats, even fantasize about foods we’ve yet to meet.

Like all relationships, it’s complicated. Eating is an emotional act steeped in joy, peppered with guilt.

Please correct me if I’m wrong, but I think this relationship with food is more complicated for women than it is for men. What of that constant pressure to look a certain way?

You can never be too rich or too thin.

One moment on the lips, forever on the hips.

The beauty of this poem is that I think we can all see parts of ourselves in it. I can relate to the narrator in a backwards sort of way. Instead of being complimented for being thinner, these days I receive little looks of surprise because there’s a bit more of me to love. I’m sometimes the friend who likes to lay love out on the table, and as far as praising someone for losing weight? Guilty as charged.

While savoring the casual, conversational lines of this poem, I carefully weigh their bittersweet subtext. We are what we eat, mourn what we cannot. How to satisfy one’s emotional hunger?

* * *

The always lovely, warm and welcoming Linda Baie is hosting today’s Roundup at TeacherDance. Peruse the full menu of poetic goodness being served up in the blogosphere this week and enjoy. The beauty of words is that you can feast, calorie free, to your heart’s content!

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Copyright © 2013 Jama Rattigan of Jama’s Alphabet Soup. All rights reserved.

Oinkity oink oink.

Happy March!

It’s National Pig Day!

Gather round, ye swines, sows, piglets and poetry-loving porkers. We’re mud-wallowingly happy to squeal your praises today. Surely none other in the animal kingdom is as clean, intelligent, belly beautiful or lick-the-fat-off-your-face tasty!

*pork fat reverie*

Mr. Cornelius delivering the keynote address at the 2013 Alphabet Soup Pig Day Conference.

Captive audience hangs on his every word.

“Now, let’s talk about that flying thing . . . “

Where would we be without our Sunday morning slices of crispy bacon, our juicy honey-baked Easter ham, our Wednesday night pan-fried pork chops with biscuits and gravy, our fall-off-the-bone bourbon-glazed baby back ribs? Oh, tempt me with your tenderloin, your coy cutlets, your heavenly hocks! Whether sausage, shoulder or bountiful butt, you alone wear the Crown.

To barbecue or not to barbecue — that’s not even a question. Aye, there’s the dry rub.

*trit trot, trit trot*

“The Ham” by Edouard Manet (oil on canvas, 1880)

HYMN TO HAM
by Roy Blount, Jr.

Though Ham was one of Noah’s sons
(Like Japheth), I can’t see
That Ham meant any more to him
Than ham has meant to me.

On Christmas Eve
I said, “Yes ma’am,
I do believe
I’ll have more ham.”

I said, “Yes ma’am,
I do believe
I’ll have more ham.”

I said, “Yes ma’am,
I do believe
I’ll have more ham.”

And then after dinner my uncle said he
Was predominantly English but part Cherokee,
“As near as I can figure,” I said, “I am
an eighth Scotch-Irish and seven-eighths ham.”

Ham.
My soul.
I took a big hot roll,
I put in some jam,
And butter that melted down in with the jam,
Which was blackberry jam,
And a big old folded-over oozy slice of HAM . . .
And my head swam.

Ham!
Hit me with a hammah,
Wham bam bam!
What good ammah
Without mah ham?

Ham’s substantial, ham is fat,
Ham is firm and sound.
Ham’s what God was getting at
When he made pigs so round.

Aunt Fay’s as big as she can be –
She weighs one hundred, she must weigh three.
But Fay says, “Ham! Oh Lord, praise be,
Ham has never hampered me!”

Next to Mama and Daddy and Gram,
We all love the family ham.

So let’s program
A hymn to ham,
To appetizing, filling ham.
(I knew a girl named Willingham.)
And after that we’ll all go cram
Ourselves from teeth to diaphragm
Full of ham.

~ from One Fell Soup, or I’m Just a Bug on the Windshields of Life (Atlantic Monthly Press/Little Brown & Co., 1967).

from The Tale of Two Bad Mice by Beatrix Potter

* * *

Soooooo-ey!! What a sporktacular poem. Let’s pig out!

Pear, Parma Ham and Blue Cheese Crostini via Budgens (click for recipe)

True Story: When I was a wee lass in pigtails, I wrote a Mother’s Day poem that got published in the PTA newsletter. The first word of this, my first ever poem to appear in print, was BACON.

*grunt*

Southern Barbecued Spareribs via CatholicMom.com

Another True Story (don’t tell Cornelius): Before my home became a safe haven for bears, I went through a brief “pig phase” (from pen to den). We all have our little dalliances . . .

Crescent Dogs via Pillsbury (click for recipe)

Yet Another: After seeing the movie, “Babe,” I couldn’t eat ham or bacon for years. I still love him, along with Wilbur, Piglet, Porky and Petunia, Little Pig Robinson, Pigling Bland, Poppleton, Mercy Watson, Jane Yolen’s Piggins, Miss Piggy, and the Three Little Pigs, but now I’m usually first in line for a good pulled pork sandwich with coleslaw and pickles. (I’ll pass on the pickled pigs feet, pigs ears, pork rinds and chitlins.)

*some pig*

Sweet & Spicy Root Beer BBQ Pork via Snappy Gourmet (click for recipe)

Did you know the word “barbecue” was derived from French-speaking pirates, who called a Caribbean pork feast “de barbe ii queue”, which translates as, “from beard to tail”? Another reason to love pigs — they’re omnivorous (not picky eaters at all), and can be consumed from snout to tail (such versatility!).

“That’ll do, Pig. That’ll do.”

Maple Bacon Cupcakes via ThucY4611

With sincere apologies to our vegan and vegetarian friends, what porky foods do you like? And do you have any favorite fictional pigs or pig books?

* * *

The brilliant and wonderful Julie Larios is hosting the Roundup today at The Drift Record. Wear your finest pink, trot on over, and have fun rooting around for a few good poems. Take her a cookie, if you like.

Piggy Cookies via Carroll’s Cookies ‘n Crumbs

That’s all, Folks!

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Copyright © 2013 Jama Rattigan of Jama’s Alphabet Soup. All rights reserved.

“Wine and cheese are ageless companions, like aspirin and aches, or June and moon, or good people and noble ventures.” ~ M.F.K. Fisher

Mr. Charles Cheddar Ghigna, our own Eminent Cheese Poet

Was it G.K. Chesterton who said, “The poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese”?

Clearly he wasn’t up on his Canadian poets, or he would have sung the praises of one James McIntyre of Ingersoll, Ontario, who’s known far and wide as “the cheese poet.” Who could forget (even if they wanted to) McIntyre’s masterpiece, “Ode on the Mammoth Cheese Weighing Over 7,000 Pounds”?

If Chesterton had lived long enough, he would have drooled over Donald Hall’s “O Cheese,” which Diane Mayr shared at Random Noodling last year. “Cheeses that dance in the moonlight/cheeses that mingle with sausages” — who could resist such free-spirited, sociable chunks of goodness? And who, among us, could ever turn our backs on the steadfast comfort of homemade mac and cheese, the golden brown delights of a friendly grilled cheese sandwich, the pull-apart-melty-string gooeyness of mozzarella married to pizza crust?

I’m sure Mr. Chesterton would also be happy to know that right here in our cozy Poetry Friday circle, we have a poet so enamored with cheese he’s written his own tribute. You may remember Charles Ghigna’s, “Lettuce Wrap, Let Us Rap,” or when he instigated our Peanut Butter Poetry Party a few months ago. Now Father Goose proves he definitely has a “whey with curds,” but when it comes to cheese, he just can’t seem to pick a favorite.

Gourmet Cheese Chef print via studio petite

CHEESE PLEASE

for Jama Kim Rattigan

There’s nothing better than Cheddar
Unless, of course, you agree
There’s nothing better than Brie.

But if you please, there’s a holey cheese
You may not want to miss
That’s simply known as Swiss.

Anytime you’d like to dine
At home when you’re alone,
Try a slice of Provolone.

A day gone by without a try
Is one I cannot bear
Of dear sweet Camembert.

From this list you must insist
The one fit for a Buddha,
A healthy slice of Gouda.

Your meal is not complete until you eat
The one that’s fit for any fella,
A creamy slice of mozzarella.

If none of these will do,
There’s always Bleu.

Copyright © 2013 Charles Ghigna. All rights reserved.

* * *

Camembert of Normandy via Wikimedia Commons

I like the democratic nature and international flavor of this poem — we’ve got the French, Italians, Dutch, English and Swiss represented here. Most of us have tried all these cheeses at some time in our lives, making us a pretty worldly bunch.

Still, as Bertolt Brecht once said, “What happens to the hole when the cheese is gone?”

And I’d really like to know why the cheese stands alone.

What’s your favorite kind of cheese? I like all the classic comfort food cheese dishes mentioned above, but possibly my fondest cheese memory is noshing on the English cheddar that was delivered to our doorstep when I lived in Wimbledon, England. My roommate and I ate slices of the stuff on crispbread for dinner while sharing the day’s school gossip. Simple, basic, soul-nourishing.

English Farmhouse Cheddar via Affinage

* * *

The lovely Anastasia Suen is hosting today’s Roundup at her Poetry Blog. Wonder if she likes mac and cheese? I’ve been liking Ree Drummond’s recipe lately:

Pioneer Woman’s Mac and Cheese (click for recipe)

“Cheese is milk’s leap towards immortality.” ~ Clifton Fadiman

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Copyright © 2013 Jama Rattigan of Jama’s Alphabet Soup. All rights reserved.

 Welcome to Poetry Friday at Alphabet Soup!

I must say you’re even more good looking today than you were last week. How is that even possible?!

I see by the twinkle in your eye that you’re hungry for good words and good food. You’ve definitely come to the right place. Please help yourself to some freshly brewed Kona coffee and homemade mango bread.

♥ TODAY’S POEM ♥

Actually, I’m on a mango kick this week. I reviewed the breathtakingly beautiful Moon Mangoes the other day, and today I’m sharing Lesléa Newman’s mouthwatering “Mangoes” from The Poetry Friday Anthology for Middle School, compiled by poetry goddesses Sylvia Vardell and Janet Wong (Pomelo Books, 2013).

Though I’m a tad extremely partial to Week 10 (Food) and Week 11 (More Food) in the anthology, I was thrilled when Lesléa’s poem appeared as a delicious surprise in Week 31 (Different Forms) for Seventh Grade (page 165).

“Mangoes” is a ghazal, an Arabic lyric poem that incorporates the repetition of the same ending word in each couplet. When it comes to mangoes, Lesléa is a poet after my own heart, for her chosen end word is “heaven.” What better way to describe that luscious golden fruit personifying the sun-drenched days of summer?

Peel it back, cutie pies, and let those juices drip down your chin.

“Woman with a Mango” by Paul Gauguin (1892)

MANGOES
by Lesléa Newman

I’ve got to know before I go,
do mangoes grow in heaven?

Without that treat that tastes so sweet
don’t want no seat in heaven.

If there ain’t none — at least a ton –
won’t be no fun in heaven.

If they substitute another fruit
I’ll give the boot to heaven.

A mango a day like the good doctor say
and I’ll make my way to heaven.

Will a mango slide through my fingers and glide
down my throat as I float up to heaven?

Now say for real, are there mangoes to steal
and peel on the way up to heaven?

If you say no, Lesléa won’t go –
no mangoes isn’t heaven!

“Mangoes” copyright © 2013 by Lesléa Newman. Reprinted by permission of Curtis Brown, Ltd.

via Doodle Lounge

* * *

♥ THE ROUNDUP ♥

Please leave your links with the fun-loving Mr. Linky below. Don’t forget to include the title of your poem or the book you’re reviewing in parentheses after your name. I will add your links manually to this post throughout the day.

* * *

- – - Today’s Poetry Friday Platter – - -

1. Steven Withrow (“First Saddle Sonnet”)

2. Cathy Ballou Mealey (Fernalicious Forest Fun)

3. Matt Forrest Esenwine @ Radio, Rhythm & Rhyme (“Book Report”)

4. Bridget Magee (Driving Mom Crazy)

5. Margaret Simon (“What If?” – Saying Goodbye to a Special Student)

6. Jeff @ NC Teacher Stuff (“The Song of the Ungirt Runners”)

7. Robyn Hood Black (Early 19th Century Limericks for Children)

8. Michelle @ Today’s Little Ditty (Losing my keys — and my marbles)

9. Iphigene @ Gathering Books (“You Are a Writer”)

10. Amy LV @ Poem Farm (New Puppies and Third Grade Poets)

11. No Water River (Poetry Comics Poe’s “Annabel Lee” Poetry Video)

12. Tara @ A Teaching Life (Monsoon Season and Mary Oliver)

13. Colette Marie Bennett (“Here Bullet”)

14. Charles Ghigna/Father Goose (“Peach Dreams”)

15. Karin Fisher-Golton (“Butterfly”)

16. Samuel Kent (“Last Day of Second Grade”)

17. Tabatha (Yahia Lababidi)

18. Catherine @ Reading to the Core (“Love Calls Us to the Things of This World”)

19. Mary Lee (Think for Yourself)

20. Laura Purdie Salas (“You’d Better Be Scared” – with audio poem starter)

21. Heidi Mordhorst (Circular thoughts on time travel)

22. Penny Klostermann (two fiddlehead fern poems)

23. Diane Mayr (“Cultivation”)

24. Kurious Kitty (It’s International Tiara Day!)

25. Carol @ Carol’s Corner (Something Fishy)

26. Donna @ Mainely Write (Double Take)

27. Doraine Bennett (Words with Madeleine L’Engle)

28. Tamera Will Wissinger (Marion Dane Bauer essay on Resonance in Verse Novels)

29. MotherReader (Follow, Follow).

30. Liz Steinglass (A poetry retreat and a question)

31. Anastasia Suen (“Not What We Want”)

32. Little Willow (“Locations and Times” by Walt Whitman)

33. Jeannine Atkins (Tugs That Carry Writers Through)

34. Ed DeCaria (MMPoetry authlete Cheryl Lawton Malone in the Boston Globe)

35. Lorie Ann Grover (“Wedding White”)

36. Joy Acey (“Wheels on the Road”)

37. Janet Squires (Behold the Bold Umbrellaphant)

38. Dia Calhoun (“Hammock Queen”)

39. Iza Trapani (“Saving Pennies”)

40. Betsy H. (“Silent Thunder” and new poetry blog!)

41. Jone @ Check It Out (“Library Books”)

42. M. M. Socks (“Teacher”)

43. Karen Edmisten (Linda Pastan)

* * *

♥ THE RECIPE ♥

Trust me, you need to make this mango bread sometime soon. It’s super moist, not overly sweet (golden raisins!), and is even better the next day.

The recipe calls for diced mango, but I put mine in the food processor because I like even distribution of fruit in my bread. Since my mangoes were medium ripe, the consistency was sort of like grated carrots. Choice of nuts is up to you — unsalted macadamias are divine and add a nice Hawaiian flavor.

Mmmm Good Mango Bread
(makes one loaf)

2 cups flour
2 teaspoons baking soda
1-1/2 teaspoons salt
2 teaspoons cinnamon
3 eggs
1/2 cup vegetable oil
1-1/2 cups sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla
1/2 cup golden raisins
1/2 cup chopped nuts
2 cups diced mango
1/4 cup flaked coconut (optional)

1. Grease a one pound loaf pan or a bundt pan.

2. Sift flour, soda, salt and cinnamon into large mixing bowl. Make a well and add the remaining ingredients, mixing thoroughly.

3. Pour into pan and let stand for 20 minutes.

4. Bake in a 350 degree oven for an hour.

(adapted from A TASTE OF ALOHA by the Junior League of Honolulu, 1983)

* * *

P.S. Happy 72nd Birthday to my man Bob Dylan! He’s knock knock knockin’ on heaven’s door — probably checking for mangoes.

Have a fabulous holiday weekend, and thanks for poetry-ing with us. Hello, Summer!

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Copyright © 2013 Jama Rattigan of Jama’s Alphabet Soup. All rights reserved.

“Barbecue sauce is like a beautiful woman. If it’s too sweet, it’s bound to be hiding something.” ~ Lyle Lovett

This ever happen to you?

You’re eating something healthy –  veggie stir fry, tofu salad, homemade granola — when suddenly, an innocent little voice whispers in your ear:

“baby back ribs.”

Of course you ignore it. You’re sticking to your plan. No meat for you.

You. Are. Strong.

But with your next purposeful, politically correct bite, the voice gets louder:

“Dry Rub.”

And louder:

“Sweet, Smoky, Spicy. Fall-off-the-bone tender. Lick your greasy fingers.”

You cover your ears, but

“PICNICS COLE SLAW BISCUITS RED-CHECKED TABLECLOTHS FIDDLE MUSIC.”

After a short pause

“TEXAS BRISKET TENNESSEE BOURBON CORN ON THE COB BAKED BEANS POTATO SALAD P-U-L-L-E-D P-O-R-K FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!”

Man, oh, man. How can anyone resist? It’s not even a question of willpower. Human beings invented fire just to be able to cook big slabs of meat outside, and the need to tear said meat from bones with our bare teeth is positively primal.

What to do?

Toss that dainty napkin, throw away your fork. Fan those flames and revel in the smoke. Smear sauce on your face and repeat after me:

Oink . . . Grunt . . . MOO . . .

ME WANT BARBECUE!

* * *

Tuesday night Baby Backs at Sweetwater Tavern, Centreville, VA

ODE TO RIBS
by Tony Hoagland

The waitress says
the man at Table Three
is making noises.

You’d think she would be used to grunting
when the sun goes down
at Melvin’s Rib Château,

but this one’s whispering amen
into his marinade,
getting sauce all over his Armani.

It could be
he’s an escapee
from a gated community

of tofu burgers and arugula,
having succeeded his way
into a milieu

of Pilates and Lipitor.
Now he’s speaking in tongues,
saying, Bring me

another slab of mastodon,
in Aramaic.
It is the sound of

a biblical digging-down.
A rescue mission
of smoked pig and Budweiser.

Trying to find out
if his inner philistine
still has an appetite.

via Texas Monthly, June 2008

* * *

I tried the Pulled Pork at Culpeper Cattle Company recently. Good cornbread and sweet potato fries. Oink!

It’s fascinating how barbecue means different things to different people. If you tossed that word around in Hawai’i, you’d probably be talking about beef teriyaki or Korean barbecue — marinated shortribs (kalbi) or thin slices of tender beef (bulgogi).

But for everyone else it’s basically “Southern Barbecue” with all its regional manifestations — choice of meats, cuts, and various sauces (brushed on or served on the side).

In addition to being seduced by baby back ribs now and again, I still think about the juicy, tender-as-butter brisket I had at The County Line in Austin, Texas, years ago. Even though I’ve always been partial to fish, beef like that makes you sit up and moo (they also have the best cole slaw I’ve ever eaten in a restaurant).

So what’s your pleasure? Chicken, pork or beef? Do you like a vinegar-based sauce, or a sweet tomato-y sauce? Who makes the best ribs in your neck of the woods?

See ya ’round the fire.

Memphis Rib Tips with House BBQ Sauce on the Side at the Culpeper Cattle Company.

* * *

Follow the smoke signals to the Poetry Friday Roundup at Carol’s Corner to feast on all the poetic goodies being served up in the blogosphere this week.

* * *

This post is also being linked to Beth Fish Read’s Weekend Cooking, where all are invited to share their scrumptious food-related posts.

—————————————————-

Copyright © 2013 Jama Rattigan of Jama’s Alphabet Soup. All rights reserved.

” If you have extraordinary bread and extraordinary butter, it’s hard to beat bread and butter.” ~ Jacques Pepin

Ah, butter! Slather it on a slice of warm crusty bread, watch a pat slippy slide down a stack of fluffy pancakes, feel it grease the corners of your mouth as you bite into a cob of corn.

Rich, smooth, creamy yellow — butter kisses your toast and ensures you will rise and shine. Ninety-nine percent of my cookie batters start off with creaming softened butter with sugar, beating till it’s nice and fluffy and ready for vanilla and eggs. There simply is no substitute: butter always promises superior flavor.

(Click for No-Knead City Bread recipe with Brown Butter Spread via Always . . . Leave Room for Dessert!)

Elizabeth Alexander’s soul-nourishing poem, “Butter,” makes me think about my parents. My mother loves butter, but my father won’t touch it. If you dare offer her margarine, be prepared for a haughty, “I want real butter.”

With my dad it’s psychological. When he was little he once ate an entire stick in one sitting and got really sick. Well, who wouldn’t? The sight of butter, the smell and mere thought of it turns him off. But if he doesn’t know it’s there or wills himself to forget, he loves it. Case in point: pecan pie and butter toffee peanuts.

Because Dad didn’t like butter, Mom rarely cooked with it. But that didn’t stop us from loving, craving, and eating it, in any form, whenever possible. Once a butter baby, always a butter baby.

BUTTER
by Elizabeth Alexander

* * *

Mmmmm! Now I’m thinking how long it’s been since I’ve dipped a chunk of lobster in drawn butter . . .*Maine fishing village reverie*

Just in case you’re craving a little more, feast on these amazing butter sculptures by Jim Victor and Marie Pelton. Udderly unbelievable!

“Family with Ox” designed by Marie Pelton (2010)

“Tribute to the Lunch Lady” by Marie Pelton (2011)

“Milk, Moms, Mornings” (2005) Click to see more food sculptures!

* * *

The warm and lovely Amy Ludwig VanDerwater is hosting today’s Roundup at The Poem Farm. I wonder if she’s churning some butter today. Enjoy all the yummy poetic offerings being served up in the blogosphere this week.

P.S. Butter my butt and call me a biscuit! Okay, you can have some.

Fluffy Buttermilk Biscuits via Caroline’s Edible Creations (click for recipe)

“I always give my bird a generous butter massage before I put it in the oven. Why? Because I think the chicken likes it — and more important, because I like to give it.” ~ Julia Child

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Copyright © 2013 Jama Rattigan of Jama’s Alphabet Soup. All rights reserved.

“The house light turns everything golden, and even though we know what’s coming, the next act, we start to believe we can stay here forever in the amber spotlight, that night’s black velvet curtain will never fall.” (“Vaudeville” by Barbara Crooker)

Barbara Crooker’s latest poetry book, Gold (Cascade Books, 2013) has been a godsend these last few months.

As I try to navigate the failing health of my parents and the dread of impending loss, Barbara’s poems have come to the rescue again and again — offering comfort, hope, and affirmation. Gold focuses on the life-altering experience of losing one’s mother; Barbara recounts her mother’s long illness, her death, and the aftermath of coping with grief.

These deeply felt, finely wrought lyric-narrative poems are sad but never maudlin or depressing, personal yet universal, with stirring emotional truths that pierce the heart.

I love how she shines an incandescent light on the fragility and strength of the mother-daughter relationship, inviting us into those tender moments of grace where she is child-turned-caregiver, the child yet asking, “How can she be gone?”

Barbara with her mother Isabelle on her 90th birthday, two months before she passed away.

If you’re already a fan of Barbara’s work, you’ll bask once again in her radiant images and the beautiful cadences of every line. Autumn sets the stage for this eloquent elegiac rumination echoing Frost’s, “Nothing gold can stay.”

The collection also includes poems about Ireland, aging and the body, the difficulties and joys of love in long-term marriages, the loss of friends, and several ekphrastic poems on paintings by Gorky, Manet, Matisse, O’Keeffe and others.

In “Peeps” we get a glimpse of Barbara’s mother’s feisty spirit and a poignant family moment where sweet tempers sadness.

A few words from Barbara:

When my mother decided she needed Assisted Living, we moved her down here to be closer to us, and I became her caregiver, although she lived in a senior residence (and then a nursing home at the end).  I went over daily, and always brought Peeps.  She’d loved them before, but I live in Pennsylvania’s Lehigh Valley, and Peeps are made in Bethlehem, so we have more varieties than you see in other parts of the country.  We have things like Peeps cooking contests (chefs from area restaurants competing for “best dessert made with Peeps”), Peeps Easter Hat decorating contests, Peeps Diorama contests, and–the biggie–on New Year’s Eve, a giant Peeps comes down at midnight! 

Peeps, though, are seasonal creatures (why no red, white and blue Peeps for Memorial Day and 4th of July, I ask?), and so when they disappeared after Easter, I mail-ordered a case, so that she’d always have them. 

After she passed, I mailed packets of Peeps to family and friends who weren’t able to be with us at the end.  You’ll notice I’d mentioned hospice; initially, our plans were to take Mom’s ashes back to her home church in upstate NY for a memorial.  But by the time she died, at ninety, not only were all of her friends gone, but the minister was gone as well.  So we held her services in my garden, which she loved, with the hospice chaplain.  I can’t say enough good words about hospice. . . .

via Chickory

PEEPS
by Barbara Crooker

In those last few months my mother didn’t want to eat,
this woman who made everything from scratch,
and who said of her appetite, I eat like a bricklayer.
Now she listlessly stirred the food around her plate,
sometimes picking up a piece of chicken,
then looking at it as if to say, What is this? Wouldn’t
put it in her mouth. But Peeps! Marshmallow Peeps!
Spun sugar and air, molded in clever forms: a row
of ghosts, a line of pumpkins, a bevy of bunnies,
a flock of tiny chicks, sometimes in improbable colors
like purple and blue . . . One day, she turned over
her tray, closed her mouth, looked up at me
like a defiant child, and said, I’m not eating this stuff.
Where’s my Peeps?

When it was over, the hospice chaplain said some words
in my back yard, under the wisteria arch. The air was full
of twinkling white butterflies, in love with the wild
oregano. Blue-green fronds of Russian sage waved
in front of the Star Gazer lilies, and a single finch
lit on a pink coneflower, and stayed. When there were
no more words or tears, I ripped open the last packet
of Peeps, tore their little marshmallow bodies,
their sugary blood on my hands, and gave a piece
to each of us. It melted, grainy fluff
on our tongues, and it was good.

Posted by permission of the author, copyright © 2013 Barbara Crooker. All rights reserved.

* * *

If you can purchase only one poetry book this Fall, make it this one.  The sheer lyricism of Barbara’s verse is breathtaking, and you’ll fully appreciate the power of poetry to heal, console and uplift.

♥ Find out more about Barbara’s work at her Official Website

♥ Click here to purchase GOLD and to read six more sample poems.

“[Barbara]  is the bird that stays to sing throughout the night when all the others have left for the winter.” ~ Paul J. Willis

* * *

Jen is hosting today’s Poetry Friday Roundup at Teach Mentor Texts. Enjoy all the wonderful poetic offerings being served up in the blogosphere and have a Happy Weekend!

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Copyright © 2013 Jama Rattigan of Jama’s Alphabet Soup. All rights reserved.

Not too long ago, I asked you to call me “Melon Head.” Would you mind changing that to “Apple Dumpling”?

Of all the foodie terms of endearment — Pumpkin, Sweetie Pie, Babycakes, Cookie, Honeybun — I think “Apple Dumpling” suits me best right about now.

Fall (my favorite season) doesn’t officially begin until Sunday, but that familiar chill is already in the air. Hooray for apple season, deep blue skies, warm cider with cinnamon sticks, stunning rustic foliage, and friendly pumpkins on porches! I am basically *ahem* a little apple-shaped, can be sweet or tart, and would like nothing better than to wrap myself in a buttery, flaky blanket of dough. Did you know this past Tuesday the 17th was National Apple Dumpling Day?

Up until a few days ago, I’d never made or eaten a genuine-for-real apple dumpling. Of course I’d heard of them, wanting to hug myself every time someone said the name.

You probably know apple dumplings are a Pennsylvania Dutch tradition, popular among the Amish who like to eat them for breakfast. They’re actually an ancient British food that became even more popular among American colonists because apples grew well here, and the dumplings could be made with either fresh or dried apples.

Before I serve up the recipe, enjoy this toothsome poem by English satirist John Wolcot (1738-1819), a physician who wrote under the pseudonym of Peter Pindar. Wolcot liked to roast eminent figures of the day, including George III, the puzzled King in this amusing verse.

“Apple Dumplings” by George Dunlop Leslie

THE APPLE-DUMPLINGS AND A KING
by Peter Pindar

Once on a time, a monarch, tired with whooping,
Whipping and spurring,
Happy in worrying,
A poor defenceless harmless buck
(The horse and rider wet as muck),
From his high consequence and wisdom stooping,
Entered through curiosity a cot
Where sat a poor old woman and her pot.

The wrinkled, blear-eyed, good old granny,
In this same cot, illumed by many a cranny,
Had finished apple dumplings for her pot:
In tempting row the naked dumplings lay,
When lo! the monarch, in his usual way,
Like lightning spoke, “What’s this? what’s this?
what? what?”

Then taking up a dumpling in his hand,
His eyes with admiration did expand;
And oft did majesty the dumpling grapple: he cried,
“‘Tis monstrous, monstrous hard indeed!
What makes it, pray, so hard?” The dame replied,
Low curtseying, “Please, your majesty, the apple.”

“Very astonishing indeed! Strange thing!”
(Turning the dumpling round), rejoined the king,
“‘Tis most extraordinary, then, all this is, –
It beats Penette’s conjuring all to pieces:
Strange I should never of a dumpling dream!
But, goody, tell me where, where, where’s the seam?”
“Sir, there’s no seam,” quoth she; “I never knew
That folks did apple-dumplings sew.”
“No!” cried the staring monarch with a grin;
“How, how the devil got the apple in?”

On which the dame the curious scheme revealed
By which the apple lay so sly concealed,
Which made the Solomon of Britain start;
Who to the palace with full speed repaired,
And queen and princesses so beauteous scared
All with the wonders of the dumpling art.
There did he labor one whole week to show
The wisdom of an apple-dumpling maker;
And lo! so deep was majesty in dough,
The palace seemed the lodging of a baker!

* * *

After considering several other time-tested recipes, I opted for Amy Traverso’s Apple Dumplings with Cider-Rum Sauce from The Apple Lover’s Cookbook. I seem to gravitate to her book every Fall and have never been disappointed with the results. Her step-by-step instructions are always crystal clear and I liked that her sauce had less sugar than most other recipes, relying on fresh apple cider for some of the sweetness.

Peeling and coring the apples are a breeze if you have a resident leprechaun helper in the kitchen, as is heating the cider, brown sugar, and rum for the sauce, and filling the apples with cinnamon and sugar.

Trust me. You will bond with your dumplings as you hold, pat and shape them.

Amy’s crust recipe calls for a combination of unsalted butter and vegetable shortening, which is much easier to work with than an all-butter dough. Rolling the dough between two sheets of wax or parchment paper is a good idea (or use a Silpat mat). Adding a little milk and kneading the dough helps with elasticity, making it easier to stretch and seal the dough around the apples.

It’s crucial to use small apples (I used golden delicious) or the dough squares won’t cover them. I pinched the four points together and sealed the seams (don’t tell King George), and to cover any flaws, I added decorative leaves (Cornelius loves to play with my special piecrust cutters).

These piecrust cutters, a birthday gift from my friend Sylvia, are the best things going.

After carefully setting my apple-y beauties in the baking dish, I poured the cider-rum sauce around the apples and baked them for about 35-40 minutes.

Aren’t they cute?

And OH! They browned beautifully and were absolutely eyeballs-roll-back-in-your-head delicious. We ate them with more sauce than is pictured here; imagine that blended with melted ice cream. When you cut into the dumpling, you’re greeted with the syrupy brown sugar center of each apple, too. Scoop up those last bits of buttery crust saturated in sauce and all is right with the world.

See why I want to be called Apple Dumpling? These adorable packages of love are the perfect way to celebrate Fall — little gifts of goodness that will astonish you just as they did the King.

After I made my dumplings I found Amy’s recipe online at Martha Stewart’s website, along with a video showing Amy and Martha making them. I was happy to see that I did exactly what Amy did, proof of how easily her written instructions can be translated by even novice bakers like me. Her recipe makes 6 dumplings, but I only made four, using the extra dough to cut out the decorative leaves.

Now, do I have to tell you that it’s your civic duty to make these for your loved ones very soon? If you’re pressed for time, you can use refrigerated pie dough or wrap apple slices in Pillsbury crescent rolls (like Pioneer Woman does). In case you’d like to try a different, more traditional sauce, check out this recipe my sister Sylvia sent me. Basically you can just use your favorite pie crust recipe. It’s all good.

Happy Autumn and Happy Baking, Friends!

Love ♥,

Ms. Apple Dumpling
xoxoxo

* * *

The lovely and talented Ms. Tabatha is hosting this week’s Roundup at The Opposite of Indifference. Last I heard, she was making some yummy applesauce. Prance over to see what’s on today’s poetic menu. Enjoy!

* * *

This post is being linked to Beth Fish Read’s Weekend Cooking, where all are invited to share their tasty, tempting food-related posts. Put on your bib and come join the fun!

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Copyright © 2013 Jama Rattigan of Jama’s Alphabet Soup. All rights reserved.

“When the power of love overcomes the love of power the world will know peace.” ~ Jimi Hendrix

photo by Sharon Auberle

Syria. Shootings. Shutdown. Stand-off.

What to do when your government is broken and the world has gone mad? While everyone duked it out in public this week, our neighbor Jack quietly battled for his life in the privacy of his own home.

Jack was a writer and a recluse. Fourteen years living next door and I may have spoken to him three times. Amidst the din of discord and crazy agendas, foreign wars we’ll never understand, and a brand of racism and intolerance that continues to rear its ugly head, we all have our personal battles. Sickness and suffering aside, what saddened us the most was that Jack died alone.

© 2013 S. Auberle

Looking for solace, I was happy to discover new-to-me Ohio poet and photographer Sharon Auberle. Her poem offered comfort, and her wonderful photos captured the tangible beauty in the world, reminding me how important it is to hold onto yourself by simply doing what you know and what you can, and being present in each moment.

Sharon wrote today’s poem because she was angry:

I clearly remember the day I wrote this . . . it was the day before the beginning of the Iraq War, and all the saber rattling was going on, and I was so so angry and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. So I was making this soup and thinking about how to calm down, and then I realized that dining mindfully and gratefully, really tasting delicious food and wine and hopefully with friends was what I needed. I don’t recall how the poem came to be set in Autumn because it was March, but I would guess that fact falls under the term of “poetic license!”

Do you think we’re angrier now than we were ten years ago? For what ails you:

© 2013 S. Auberle

HOW TO GET THROUGH A DAY WHEN ALL THE TALK IS OF WAR
by Sharon Auberle

First you notice the mellow afternoon,
with the oak glowing bronze
by your front door and one last bee,
drunk on October and fallen apples,
weaving down your window screen.
Then you might try
frying an onion and lots
of garlic in some olive oil.
While that fragrance is luring
all manner of creatures to your door,
you could puree two cans
of Caribbean-style black beans
with about one half can of chicken broth,
then mix it all together, along
with the rest of the can of broth
to heat through. Add a dollop
of sour cream in each bowl and
serve with red wine, some olives,
a green salad with the hint of oil and vinegar,
and a fresh, crusty French baguette
that you must tear apart in the best spirit
of breaking bread—with an old lover,
or a friend who knew you when.
Alone is good, too, with Bach
and a book of poems.
Then indulge, enjoy, surrender
to this moment that is all there is,
to the bee, the oak, the falling night,
to this prelude of smoky light,
golden against evening shadows…

Posted by permission of the author, copyright © 2013 Sharon Auberle. All rights reserved.

© 2013 S. Auberle

* * *

Sharon’s poem made me feel better, and it made me want to make her soup.

I couldn’t find Caribbean stye black beans, but I improvised with regular black beans to great results. The soup was hearty, delicious and satisfying. I followed the steps in the poem, adding these spices gradually until I achieved the flavor I wanted: sea salt, black pepper, paprika, cayenne pepper, cinnamon, garlic powder, ground cumin. Yum!

By the by, Sharon’s poem won First Place in the Triad Contest (Food Category) sponsored by the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets, and first appeared in Verse Wisconsin (Spring Issue #102).

To feast on more of her wonderful poetry-photo pairings, visit Mimi’s Golightly Cafe. Is that a cool name for a blog, or what?

Thanks, Sharon — your recipe poem was just what the doctor ordered — it’s sheer pleasure to see the world through your eyes.

“To live is so startling, it leaves little time for anything else.” ~ Emily Dickinson

* * *

The lovely and talented Laura Purdie Salas is hosting today’s Roundup at Writing the World for Kids. Take her a cup of soup and enjoy the full menu of tasty poetic offerings on this week’s menu.

“What Washington needs is adult supervision.” ~ Barack Obama

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Copyright © 2013 Jama Rattigan of Jama’s Alphabet Soup. All rights reserved.

“It is remarkable how closely the history of the apple tree is connected with that of man.” ~ Henry David Thoreau

Apple print available via Sugar Lane Photo Shop

Every Autumn, I fall in love with apples all over again.

I reread my favorite apple poems, visit the farmers market to say hello to my friends Stayman, York, Winesap, Fuji, Rome, and Jonathan, drink lots of warm cider and best of all, look for new apple recipes.

No matter how you eat them — out of hand, in salads or in every conceivable baked treat, it’s all good.

Repeat after me:

Apple Tea Cake
Swedish Apple Pie
Grandma’s Apple Crisp
Rustic Apple Brown Betty
Buttermilk Apple Buckle
Apple Pandowdy
Apple Cider Donuts
Apple Clafoutis

See, you’re smiling. Are you thinking of family chattering at the table, the wonderful smell of cinnamon-y apples wafting from the oven, the safe, happy place of your childhood kitchen? Apples have that effect on people.

Apple Heart print available via Marianne LoMonaco

Today, just because you look all perky and adorable, we’re serving Baked Apple Oatmeal Pudding.

But first:

I love sinking my teeth into Dorianne Laux’s delectable poem because of the way it celebrates how wide ranging our apple associations are. Nature’s wondrous, perfect blushing orb — hold it in your hand, hold worlds within a world for all time. There from the beginning (A is for Apple Pie! an apple for the teacher), what piece of real or imagined history will you taste with that first bite?

“Woman with Apple” by Boris Grigoriev

A SHORT HISTORY OF THE APPLE
by Dorianne Laux

The crunch is the thing, a certain joy in crashing through living tissue, a memory of Neanderthal days. —Edward Bunyard, The Anatomy of Dessert, 1929

Teeth at the skin. Anticipation.
Then flesh. Grain on the tongue.
Eve’s knees ground in the dirt
of paradise. Newton watching
gravity happen. The history
of apples in each starry core,
every papery chamber’s bright
bitter seed. Woody stem
an infant tree. William Tell
and his lucky arrow. Orchards
of the Fertile Crescent. Bushels.
Fire blight. Scab and powdery mildew.
Cedar apple rust. The apple endures.
Born of the wild rose, of crab ancestors.
The first pip raised in Kazakhstan.
Snow White with poison on her lips.
The buried blades of Halloween.
Budding and grafting. John Chapman
in his tin pot hat. Oh Westward
Expansion. Apple pie. American
as. Hard cider. Winter banana.
Melt-in-the-mouth made sweet
by hives of Britain’s honeybees:
white man’s flies. O eat. O eat.

~ from The Book of Men: Poems (W.W. Norton & Co., 2011). Posted by permission of the author.

“Apples and Biscuits” by Paul Cezanne (Oil on canvas, 1895)

* * *

La pomme = un poème!

Once you’ve convinced a few smart people to call you “Apple Dumpling,” it would seem iffy at best to convince them that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

Perhaps they haven’t yet tried an apple pudding. A Baked Apple Oatmeal Pudding to be precise.

A wholesome, not-too-sweet, fruity nutritious breakfast dish that moonlights as dessert, giddy when dolloped with Greek yogurt or crème fraîche, frisky when squirted with whipped cream.

So accommodating, you can bake it on a Sunday, then enjoy it for breakfast all week. With a mere 1/3 cup of brown sugar, this bread pudding made with rolled oats, nuts, dried fruit, milk, eggs, and firm-sweet apples speaks of a warm hearth, flannel footed pajamas, rosy cheeks, and a crisp autumn morning.

I used Honeycrisps, dried cranberries and golden raisins. To Amy Traverso’s original recipe, I added extra cinnamon and a dash of nutmeg. The old fashioned oats are wonderfully chewy; this pudding is so yummy you feel like you are cheating and eating dessert for breakfast. Is it wrong to wanna hug your food?

* * *

BAKED APPLE OATMEAL PUDDING

(makes 6 servings)

Butter for greasing pan
2 cups rolled oats, also called old-fashioned oats
1-1/2 teaspoons baking powder
3/4 teaspoon kosher salt
1/3 cup chopped pecans
1/3 cup roughly chopped dried fruit, such as cranberries, apricots and raisins
1-3/4 cups diced firm-sweet apple
2 cups 2% or 1% milk
3 large eggs
1/3 cup firmly packed light brown sugar
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg

1. Preheat oven to 325°F and set a rack to the middle position. Grease a 2-1/2 quart soufflé dish or an 8″ x 8″ baking pan. In a large bowl, stir together the oats, baking powder, and salt. Add the pecans, dried fruit, and apple.

2. In another bowl, whisk together the milk, eggs, brown sugar, nutmeg, and cinnamon. Pour this mixture over the oat mixture and stir to combine.

3. Pour the pudding into the prepared dish. Bake until the top is golden brown and the center is no longer liquid, 55 to 65 minutes. Spoon into bowls and serve warm.

Notes:

*Sweet firm apple suggestions: Jonagold, Golden Delicious, Ginger Gold, Jazz, SweeTango, Honeycrisp.

**O Remember! O Remember! You were once “young and easy under the apple boughs . . . prince of the apple towns.”

Recipe adapted from The Apple Lover’s Cookbook by Amy Traverso (W.W. Norton & Co., 2011) — as previously stated, the only apple cookbook you’ll ever need.

* * *

Cathy (she of the apple cheeks) is hosting today’s Roundup at Merely Day by Day. Feast on all the tasty poems being served up in the blogosphere and have a good weekend!

Ever yours,

Ms. Apple Dumpling née Pudding
xoxoxo

P.S. All the recipes listed in the first part of this post can be found in The Apple Lover’s Cookbook.

Other recipes I’ve made from this cookbook:

Apple Pumpkin Walnut Muffins

Apple Dumplings with Cider-Rum Sauce

Baked Apple French Toast with Hazelnut Crumb Topping

Sweet Potato-Apple Latkes

* * *

“Even if I knew that tomorrow the world would go to pieces, I would still plant my apple tree.” ~ Martin Luther 

———————————-

Copyright © 2013 Jama Rattigan of Jama’s Alphabet Soup. All rights reserved.

Thanks to Diane Shipley DeCillis, we now know why the course of true love never did run smooth.

Curtain up!

* * *

via Da Silvano

OPERA BUFFA

At La Dolce Vita, in the village,
the gnocchi lifts itself off the fork,
floats like a cloud in your mouth,
the marinara so fresh,
it ripens the tomatoes, garlic
and basil right on your tongue.

Clemenza’s in the kitchen
stirring the sauce,
telling everyone he really doesn’t eat
that much, it’s the fumes
that have permeated his body,
gotten under his skin
and made him fat.

My date Antonio closes his eyes
after each bite, groans,
Marona, this is as good
as my mother’s.

Satisfied, he lays his folded napkin
on the empty plate and slumps
in the chair while I,
having saved room,
crane my neck looking for the waiter.
What, you want dessert too?
He seems surprised.

I’d like to see what they have,
though I’ve committed it
to memory.
Aren’t you full? he asks.
Am I full? I think to myself.
It’s bad enough that we have to die,
that I’m not taller, that my metabolism
is molto lento, but to dine with someone
who is indifferent

to a chilled plate
of Panna Cotta,
silky, quivering cream
adorned with fresh berries,
or Torta Strega, cake
perfumed with liqueur,
filled with pastry cream
and finished
with hazelnut meringue.

I cannot live on lasagna alone
and the fact that Antonio
doesn’t sense this threatens
our chance for a future.

The waiter smiles as he unravels
the dessert menu, handwritten
on rough brown craft paper.
Tiramisu
Umbrian Apple Tart
Selville Orange Sorbetto …
This is so beautiful, I say,
ordering the Panna Cotta.
May I keep the menu?
Of course Signora, he says.
And you sir?

No. Nothing for me,
just a cup of espresso.

Oh Antonio, Antonio what
are you thinking?
How can I trust a man
who doesn’t like sweets?
At La Dolce Vita
what could have been the start
of a beautiful romance—
snapped like a broken string
on a Stradivarius!

— from Rattle #20, Winter 2003
Tribute to Italian Poets. Posted by permission of the author, copyright © 2013 Diane Shipley DeCillis.

via Da Silvano

* * *

Diane on “Opera Buffa”:

I often write about food and tend to use a collage of autobiographical and other experiences in my poetry, with garnish.

When I first dated my husband, we were joined by another couple at Da Silvano in NY. The food was delicious and it reminded me of an authentic Italian restaurant I’d frequented in Detroit, back in the 70′s. The owner’s mother was a marvelous cook and I remembered meeting her in the kitchen, as she stood over the stove stirring a pot. She was rather plump and made a comment about how just the smell was making her fat. The image of her reminded me of Clemenza in “The Godfather” making his spaghetti sauce for the Corleone’s.

The waiter at Da Silvano presented the dessert menu on rough hewn paper, which looked like a work of art to me (I later framed it). It was the first time I’d had panna cotta, recommended by my husband. It was like the foie gras of dessert, thick and decadently creamy. The other man chose not to have dessert and I thought, I’m glad I’m not dating him! As I wrote the poem, it seemed natural to dramatize it, Italian opera style.

* * *

Diane had me at the second line with “gnocchi lifts itself off the fork.” *kisses fingertips*

I pretty much floated through the rest of the poem, hooked by the theatrical narrative, loving the sensory detail, appreciating that delicious layer of sly humor, naturally wondering why I had never tried any “silky, quivering cream adorned with fresh berries.”

Well.

We would certainly have to change that. I was happy when Diane agreed to share her favorite recipe for Panna Cotta. Only after further investigation did I discover that she’s married to an award-winning chef, herself an art connoisseur who incorporates her passion for literature, music, and the culinary arts in her poetry and fiction. I would say she definitely married the right man.

Did her Panna Cotta actually quiver? Oh yes! It gently jiggled when released from its mold, so polite and unassuming. Rich, velvety, tantalizing the tongue, there’s nothing like Italian cooked cream to smooth the course of true love. It made me feel like an indulgent cat, ecstatic with her bowl of milk, purring and licking herself all over.

This decadent dessert is deceptively easy to prepare — just combine cream, sugar, vanilla, and gelatin and chill. I drizzled mine with a little fresh raspberry coulis. Share it soon with your loved ones for a truly operatic experience.

Bellissima!

* * *

PANNA COTTA

(adapted from Judy Witts Francini, Divina Cucina)

(serves 8)

4 cups (1l) heavy cream (or half-and-half)
1/2 cup (100g) sugar
2 teaspoons vanilla extract, or 1 vanilla bean, split lengthwise
2 packets powdered gelatin (about 4-1/2 teaspoons)
6 tablespoons (90ml) cold water

1. Heat the heavy cream and sugar in a saucepan or microwave. Once the sugar is dissolved, remove from heat and stir in the vanilla extract.

(If using a vanilla bean, scrape the seeds from the bean into the cream and add the bean pod. Cover, and let infuse for 30 minutes. Remove the bean, then rewarm the mixture before continuing.)

2. Lightly oil eight custard cups with a neutral-tasting oil.

3. Sprinkle the gelatin over the cold water in a medium-sized bowl and let stand 5 to 10 minutes.

4. Pour the very warm Panna Cotta mixture over the gelatin and stir until the gelatin is completely dissolved.

5. Divide the Panna Cotta mixture into the prepared cups, then chill them until firm, which will take at least two hours, but I let them stand at least 4 hours.

6. Run a sharp knife around the edge of each Panna Cotta and unmold each onto a serving plate, and garnish with berries.

If you don’t want to use cup molds, just serve the panna cotta in dessert dishes.

* * *

Diane Shipley DeCillis’s poetry and stories have appeared in CALYX, The North Atlantic Review, Nimrod International Journal, Connecticut Review, Gastronomica, Slipstream, The Southern Indiana Review, and numerous other journals. She’s been awarded the Crucible Poetry Prize and the Ocean Prize, and won the MacGuffin National Poet Hunt. Her poems have been nominated for two Pushcart Prizes and for Best American Poetry. She is co-editor of Mona Poetica, an anthology dedicated to the Mona Lisa. A new poetry collection, Strings Attached, is forthcoming in Spring 2014.

* * *

The warm and lovely Linda Baie is hosting today’s Roundup at TeacherDance. Please take her a dish of Panna Cotta and check out the full menu of yummy poetic goodness being served up in the blogosphere this week.

BTW, Does your spouse or significant other usually order dessert?

Funny addendum: There is a nice restaurant called La Dolce Vita just 10 minutes from home. We’ve dined there many times and enjoyed the food, but have never ordered dessert. Oh Leonardo, Oh Leonardo, what were we thinking?

* * *

This post is also being linked to Beth Fish Read’s Weekend Cooking, where all are invited to share their food related posts. Put on your best bib and come join the fun!

—————————————————–

Copyright © 2013 Jama Rattigan of Jama’s Alphabet Soup. All rights reserved.

Who wants pie? Did you save your fork?

In a perfect world, there’d be a poetry pie shop just minutes from home, where the heavenly aroma of freshly baked double crust fruit pies would lovingly call your name at precisely the right times.

Willingly seduced by juiced up sour cherries and rhubarb dallying with sugar, nutmeg and almond extract, or golden ripe peaches yielding to clover honey and ginger, you’d eagerly float on over, happily anticipating that blissful moment when you can wrap your mind and lips around a good helping of emotional truth.

Although most of us aren’t lucky enough to have such a magical shop nearby, we can still feast on the next best thing: Kate Lebo’s, A Commonplace Book of Pie (Chin Music Press, 2013), an uncommonly quirky, thought-provoking collection of 25 prose poems, cool ephemera, baking tips, and mouthwatering recipes stunningly illustrated by Jessica Lynn Bonin.

Some of you may remember when I featured “Mincemeat,” one of the tasty poems from this charming book, back in August. Since then, Kate has crisscrossed the country reading her poems, enticing audiences with her homemade pies, and converting many a non-believer with discussions of pie lore, personalities, and philosophy at bookstores, festivals, farm markets and grocery stores, with noteworthy stints on radio and TV.

Basically taking the pie metaphor and running with it, she’s upended time-worn assumptions about what poetry is and can be. I love how her pie poems (a fantasy zodiac like you’ve never seen) are laced with just the right amounts of sass, savvy and humor, inviting readers to look at themselves, face their fears, and articulate their desires.

I thank Kate for taking time away from her busy schedule to tell us about the fortuitous evolution of ACBOP and her highly successful book tour. She also offers a bit of writing advice, and provides backstory for the sensory-lush “Cranberry.”

*   *   *

Pie Stand, Whole Foods Market (October 2013)

♥ MEET PIE POET KATE LEBO ♥

It’s not often that I see a young poet with a debut book published by an indie press crisscrossing the country doing readings, appearing on TV, acing radio interviews, and being featured at USA Today. Are you the sole mastermind behind your brilliant promotional blitz, or did you get a lot of help from your publisher?

Oh lord, there is absolutely no way this tour and media bonanza could have happened without Bruce, Chelsey, and David at Chin Music Press. We worked as a team to book events, handle logistics, promote the hell out of them, and stay creative under pressure. My deepest thanks to them for tirelessly supporting me from Seattle while I zoomed around the country making friends for the book.

Our secret has been a combination of research, resourcefulness, and relationships. We’ve used the book’s multi-genre nature to our advantage—we can fit at Whole Foods as easily as we fit at literary venues, and I can do anything from a traditional poetry reading to a pie lesson to a discussion of poetics and feminism and craft and domesticity, or all these things at once. For the most part, I only went places where I already had a friend who could rally their local community, or where a business (like Whole Foods) or institution (like Luther College) could introduce me to a community. Chin Music is a small press and I’m just one woman (also small), so we had to be smart and light on our feet to make sure we weren’t wasting our time and our money out there on the open road. Regardless of how things went, I would have had a great time, but it’s been exciting to see momentum for the book building in cities I’ve never before visited, in national publications like USA Today. Cool and surreal.

Illustrations © 2013 Jessica Lynn Bonin

Have you ever met a pie you didn’t like?

Oh sure. All the time. My interest in pie is really about the rituals of making, serving, and sharing it, not about eating it. Don’t get me wrong, I love to eat pie, but any old slice of pie is not enough to get me excited anymore. I’ve met pies of mine that I didn’t like at all, especially while testing recipes for Pie School, my upcoming cookbook. Almond chiffon, for example. A pain in the butt to make that ended up tasting like nothing much. Nutty fluff. Can’t always make a masterpiece. After that experience, I decided to only include pies that are a joy to make as well as eat. This is a subjective choice, of course.

Please describe yourself in terms of pie.

But I’m so much better at describing YOU in terms of pie!

Okay. How about this line from A Commonplace Book of Pie: “cold hands, warm heart.”

Jessica’s lovely watercolors showcase pie-making process and materials.

A Commonplace Book of Pie began as a collaborative sculpture project with a letterpressed zine that is now a published book. Was this part of your goal from the beginning? Looking back at the fruitful evolution of ACBOP, what have you learned from the experience? What advice can you offer for writers wanting to publish a book of poetry in a notoriously tough market?

My goal was always to make something to fit the occasion. The occasion kept changing so the project did too, until I eventually had this book. Here’s what I mean: the zine wouldn’t have existed without the collaboration with sculptor Brian Schoneman. It wouldn’t have persisted if people and bookstores weren’t so excited about it. That excitement told me I’d tapped into something powerful, which made me want to write more, to figure out what I could do with this project. Which eventually led to something long enough to be a book, and I’m a writer, so I of course want to write a book—and there, look, I had! Finding a publisher wasn’t easy, but once I found Chin Music Press, pitching the book was a breeze. We have a common interest in multi-genre forms and beautiful-yet-affordable books. Chin Music was a natural home for A Commonplace Book of Pie. I’m so glad they said yes.

What I’ve learned is the advice I’ll give other writers: have faith in your obsessions. Let them lead you down dark paths and dead ends. Trust that you’re getting somewhere. Make assumptions and stay open to possibility—for the work, for yourself. Believe in the work. See what happens.

There is no right way to have a writing career. What’s a writing career, anyway? There’s always a way to write. That’s the important thing. Keep writing. Put your writing into the world in the ways available to you, or make a way. Make what you can with what you have.

Photo of Kate and Jessica by Shawn Tadashi Arntz

Did you have a say in selecting Jessica Lynn Bonin as the illustrator for the book, and how did you feel when you first saw her pictures?

Jessica and I have been partners in crime for years now. When I had a kitchen, it was decorated with her paintings of everyday objects. We have an ongoing conversation about art and life that naturally lent itself to this book. There was no other artist for this book, ever. When I was looking for a publisher, I looked for a press that would let me choose my own illustrator. With Chin Music I lucked out—they hired Jess and the illustrator and book designer. So now we have this book, and we get to travel with it and tell people about it together, and it’s such a gift. She’s my hero.

Why prose poem vs. any other poetic form to ruminate about pie?

I wanted to emphasize the sentence and the story, not the line or the music, to raise the volume on the lyric voice that’s bossing everyone around with these descriptions and instructions. Honestly, it never occurred to me to break my lines, I think because it was already a gamble to write a poem about a pie and I wanted to avoid writing doggerel, or anything that looked like doggerel. The prose poem form felt right for the multi-genre form of the book. The poems blend with the ephemera and recipes better.

Tell us about the new cookbook you’re currently working on.

It’s both cookbook and manifesto, a book that will teach you how to make pie while asking you to consider why we make and eat and share in the first place. I use poetry and feminist critique to frame the cookbook with a new secret mission: to use the lessons of pie-making to learn how to trust yourself and your senses.

Pie School: Lessons in Fruit, Flour, & Butter will be out in fall 2014. I’m so excited to share it with y’all!

Finally, please discuss your inspiration and process for “Cranberry.”

Cherry Cranberry Pie

Cranberry
by Kate Lebo

You dare not trust yourself to make the house pleasant with your wit and so you buy ice cream. Hello cranberry pie-lover. Your lights are light because your darks are dark, bog-like, ballooned. Where your rivers break into lakes, weeds silk the dark water. Do you wonder how it feels to back-float in a cranberry field, cerise fruit bubbling up your arms’ lazy windmill? What would cranberries sound like, their million submerged collisions? Like a tub of loose beads? A handful of lost change chattering in the dirt? The bite of tart fruit loses its teeth a la mode — but why speak of it? You’re too adult to chew open mouthed, yet this pie is more vivid under the light of a loose jaw, a little air.

*   *   *

It started with a funny line I saw on a menu in Anacortes, Washington: “I didn’t trust my wit, so I bought ice cream.” And went from there. The vanilla-sweet cuteness of the line made me want to tart it up, make it redder, harder to swallow. Cranberries, why not? Then the bog, then the sensation of floating in one, which I’ve always wanted to do, to be in the water with all that color, which reminded me of the sensation of being half-submerged in a lake with the deep beneath you, unseen but very there, and the sky above, bright and untouchable, the different kinds of coldness you’d experience half-in—cold water, cold wind—and the peace of equilibrium, which for me has always been a tonic for headchatter and dread. The poem was inspired by contrasts, a sense of not being enough, the things we do to feel worthy.

*   *   *

A COMMONPLACE BOOK OF PIE
written by Kate Lebo
illustrated by Jessica Lynn Bonin
published by Chin Music Press, 2013
Poetry, Fantasy Zodiac, Recipes, Tips, 93 pp.

• Kate Lebo’s Website
• Jessica Lynn Bonin’s Website
• ACBOP Facebook Page (check out many glowing reviews and great radio/TV interviews)
• Cool interview with Kate and Jessica at the publisher’s website
• Official book trailer is here

*   *   *

Donna at Mainely Write is hosting today’s Roundup. Check out the full menu of poetic offerings being featured in the blogosphere and have a terrific weekend!

*   *   *

This post is also being linked to Beth Fish Read’s Weekend Cooking, where all are invited to share their food-related posts (recipes, cookbook reviews, food photos and ruminations). Come join the fun!

——————————–

Copyright © 2014 Jama Rattigan of Jama’s Alphabet Soup. All rights reserved.

“If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.” ~ Emily Dickinson

*

Fasten your seat belts. This one left me reeling.

via Just a Pinch Recipes

*

THE ONE AND THE OTHER
by Hayden Saunier

The child hums as he carries, too late,
his grandmother’s sugar-dusted lemon-glazed cake

down the street to the neighbor who needs to be cheered,
too late for the neighbor

who’s stepped into the air
of her silent front hall from a ladder-backed chair

her church dress just pressed, her head in a loop she tied
into the clothesline, too late

he unlatches the gate,
walks up the brick walk on his tiptoes, avoiding the cracks

toward the door she unlocked, left ajar, who knows why
or for whom, if on purpose

or not, but because he’s too late
she’s gone still when he reaches the door and because

he’s too late, as he calls out and looks, brilliant sun
burns through haze

pours through sidelights and bevels
through chandelier prisms, strikes white sparks and purples

on ceiling and walls, on the overturned chair, on her stockings
her brown and white

spectator shoes on the floor
and because he’s too late he remembers both terror and beauty

but not which came first. But enough of the one
that he ran

and enough of the other
to carefully lay down the cake at her feet.

~ posted by permission of the author, © 2011 Hayden Saunier. All rights reserved. (Rattle #36, Winter 2011)

*   *   *

Hayden: “I love the way objects, images and stories connect and find their way into a poem. An old friend had sent me an outrageous pound cake one Christmas and when I described it as ‘sugar-dusted, lemon-glazed,’ the story of the boy in this poem, told to me years earlier, came straight to mind. Everything came together through that sunny yellow circle with its center missing — dense, empty, bitter, sweet, gestures we make too late, a child’s ability to take in everything at the same moment, at once, and complete. It was all in the cake.”

*   *   *

I still hold my breath every time I read this powerful, heartbreaking poem, as though I can’t believe what is happening, wishing I could somehow call the boy back to keep him from seeing what he will see.

The escalating urgency and suspense, and the intense crackle of opposites colliding are so masterfully executed detail by detail, phrase by phrase, in just one cascading sentence.

How fine is the line between terror and exhiliration — or are they one and the same?

We are left to ponder which is the greatest tragedy — that a woman committed suicide, that a child was traumatized, or that perhaps a life could have been saved if that cake had been delivered just five minutes earlier.

“The One and the Other” won the 2011 Rattle Poetry Prize, and is included in Hayden’s brand new book, Say Luck (Big Pencil Press, 2013), winner of the 2013 Kenneth & Geraldine Gell Poetry Prize.

I first stumbled upon “The One and the Other” online a couple of months ago while innocently searching for a cake poem, and have been haunted by it ever since. Totally unsuspecting, I could never have imagined, reading those first few words — “child hums . . . grandmother’s sugar-dusted lemon glazed cake” — that this poem would be laced with such a searing kaleidoscope of fragmented anguish.

I’d like to thank Hayden for granting me permission to share her poem and for providing a little backstory. Do pick up a copy of Say Luck; I’ve been slowly savoring and enjoying each and every poem.

♥ Visit the Rattle website to hear Hayden read “The One and the Other.”

♥ Hayden reads “Say Luck” at Listen Well.

*   *   *

SAY LUCK
written by Hayden Saunier
selected by Laure-Anne Bosselaar
published by Big Pencil Press, 2013
Poetry, 94 pp.
*Foreword by Ms. Bosselaar

Hayden Saunier is a writer, actress, and teaching artist living in the Philadelphia area. She is the winner of the 2013 Gell Poetry Prize, 2011 Pablo Neruda Poetry Prize, and the 2011 Rattle Poetry Prize. She has been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize, is a Bucks County, PA, Poet Laureate, and the 2005 Robert Fraser Poetry Award Winner. Click here to visit her Official Website.

*   *   *

The lovely, talented and snickerdoodle-loving Keri Collins Lewis is hosting today’s Roundup at Keri Recommends. Check out the full menu of poetic goodies being served up in the blogosphere and enjoy the holiday weekend!

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Copyright © 2014 Jama Rattigan of Jama’s Alphabet Soup. All rights reserved.

MY MOTHER’S HANDWRITING
by Julia Wendell

Individual as DNA, it spoke to me
from fridge notes, Christmas tags,
and report cards I took back to school,
with her hurried scrawl at the bottom.

Even now, the ache when I find her
half-cursive, half-print,
as unique as her voice was
sonorous and youthful, even as she aged.

But she is nowhere more present
than in her stash of recipe cards marked
Vegetables and Salads, Meat and Poultry,
as if she’d just penned the headings yesterday.

I scan the green cardboard box
for something yummy and familiar,
reading her hand-me-down script,

more alive than the cherry tree blooming
outside my window, more permanent
than my own body
that once slipped out of hers,

my half-breed penmanship reduced,
like anyone’s, to scribble in the end –
the way we sign our names,
caress a cold ankle or pull up a sheet,

the way we say goodbye
or fix a perfect salad.
She returns to me in fading ballpoint pen:

Press the garlic into the sides
of the wooden bowl.
Add tons of garlic and Parmesan cheese.
Toss and serve. I savor
every dash.

~ posted by permission of the author (Take This Spoon, 2014).

*   *   *

It wasn’t until I moved to Virginia that Margaret started sending me recipes in the mail.

I requested a few local favorites so I could share a taste of Hawai’i with my new neighbors: Hot Shrimp Dip, Sweet Bread Pudding, Butter Mochi, Korean Kalbi, Cucumber Kimchi, Teriyaki Chicken.

Every so often, she’d send me a surprise recipe or two — a curry vegetable dip I just “had to try,” the Waioli Tea Room Fried Chicken recipe making the rounds at work, a new pancake recipe her sister Ella couldn’t stop raving about. Some were typed on her snazzy IBM Selectric, but most were written in her generous speedy script — breezy handwriting that artfully pinned down chopped parsley, dill weed, yogurt and grated red onion before they had a chance to flit away.

These occasional exchanges, short for, you’re too far away for me to cook for you but since I’m your mother I must make sure you don’t starve to death, took the place of actual letters, which were my Dad’s forte. Busy Margaret was more about random notes, lists, a line or two in a greeting card and hastily jotted recipes, some giving rise to good stories about making, eating, sharing.

I was thrilled to find Julia Wendell’s poem at Alimentum. Talk about someone taking the words right out of your mouth! I’ve always loved studying handwriting, delighted with how size, slant, speed, shape and pressure can reveal mood and personality. Now, when I chance upon an old recipe card, Margaret returns to me “in fading ballpoint pen.” I look harder at her scribbles, hoping to hear more.

“My Mother’s Handwriting” is included in Julia’s brand new chapbook, Take This Spoon (Main Street Rag Publishing Co., 2014). I’ve been slowly savoring each and every food poem and yes, there are family recipes. Julia’s a new-to-me poet; I like her intimate conversational style and use of telling detail to reveal hard truths about family dynamics, personal demons, and the complex relationship we have with food. Wholly accessible with startling emotional resonance, these beautifully crafted poems are not to be missed. But I’ll let Julia herself tell you more about them, since she’s agreed to drop by soon for a chat. Stay tuned!

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♦ CHILI (BEVERLY HILLS RESTAURANT) ♦

This is one of Margaret’s ‘survival recipes’ that I’ve made several times with my own variations. She sometimes whipped up a batch during the week and occasionally served it at beach park picnics. One time she couldn’t figure out why it didn’t taste quite the same. That’s what happens when you forget the beans. :D

• 1 lb. pinto beans (soak overnight)
• 5 cups canned tomatoes
• 1 lb. green (bell) peppers, chopped
• 1-1/2 tablespoons salad oil
• 1-1/2 medium onions, chopped
• 2-3 cloves garlic
• 1/2 cup parsley, chopped
• 1/2 cup butter
• 2-1/2 lb. lean ground round
• 1 lb ground pork or Italian hot sausage
• 1/2 cup chili powder
• 2 tablespoons salt
• 1 teaspoon black pepper
• 1-1/2 teaspoon whole cumin seed

1. Wash beans, soak overnight, then cook until tender.

2. Sauté green peppers in oil.

3. Add onions and cook until tender. Add garlic and parsley.

4. Sauté meat in butter 15 minutes; add meat to onion and pepper mixture, stir in chili powder, then cook about 10 minutes. Add beans and rest of spices. Simmer, covered, about an hour.

5. Cook an additional 30 minutes uncovered. Skim fat from top before serving.

Note: Recipe may be halved. Substitute vegetable oil for butter and ground turkey for pork to cut down on fat calories. You can also use canned pinto beans in place of dried.

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Julia Wendell grew up in the Allegheny Forest of northwest Pennsylvania. Educated at Cornell University, Boston University, and the University of Iowa, Writer’s Workshop, she left her mid-careers as teacher and editor for the world of horses and three-day eventing. Her children John Logan (a classical sitarist) and Caitlin Saylor (an actor/playwright), grew up with their mother and her husband, poet and critic, Barrett Warner, on their horse farm in northern Baltimore County, where Julia and Barrett still live and work. Julia is enamored of jumping horses over immovable obstacles while galloping cross country.

For more info about Take This Spoon and her other chapbooks, poetry collections, and memoir, visit Julia’s Official Website.

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Casual poet and serious slurper Diane Mayr is hosting today’s Roundup at Random Noodling. Don your best bibs, polish your chopsticks and feast on all the poetic delights being served up in the blogosphere this week. Bon Appétit!

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This post is also being linked to Beth Fish Read’s Weekend Cooking, where all are invited to share their food-related posts. Drop by for some yummy Coffee Bars and check out what deliciousness the other bloggers are sharing this week!

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Copyright © 2014 Jama Rattigan of Jama’s Alphabet Soup. All rights reserved.

1. “Cranberry,” A Commonplace Book of Pie by Kate Lebo and Jessica Lynn Bonin

2. “The One and the Other” by Hayden Saunier

3. “Sugar” by Barbara Crooker

4. THE POEM THAT WILL NOT END by Joan Bransfield Graham and Kyrsten Brooker

5. “Teatime Grouch,” “Teddy Bear Tea,” “Tea Around the World” from TEA PARTY TODAY by Eileen Spinelli and Karen Dugan

6. “Tea” by Carol Ann Duffy

7. “Color” by Christina Rossetti

8. “The Work of Happiness” by May Sarton

9. ANTIQUE PIANO & OTHER SOUR NOTES by Barbara Etlin

10. WHY DO I CHASE THEE by Jessica Swaim and Chet Phillips

11. Emily Dickinson flower poems

12. “My Party” and “You Are Going Out to Tea” by Kate Greenaway

13. “Song of the Flower XXIII” by Kahlil Gibran + Roundup

14. “Calvin Coolidge” from RUTHERFORD B., WHO WAS HE? by Marilyn Singer and John Hendrix

15. IF DOGS RUN FREE by Bob Dylan and Scott Campbell

16. “My Mother’s Handwriting” by Julia Wendell

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♥ A permanent link to this archive may be found in the sidebar of this blog (scroll down to “Archival Lists”).

We are always eating
or about to, or just done.
We are hungry, we are sated,
we are wishing we hadn’t.
We are making up for it,
or planning our denials,
or confessing them.

~ from “Dieting” by Julia Wendell

I’m pleased today to welcome Maryland poet Julia Wendell, who’s as passionate about words as she is about horses. With a life marked by such difficult personal challenges as anorexia and alcohol addiction, it seems riding and writing have been her saving graces.

The 29 poems in her new chapbook Take This Spoon are presented in seven sections, each leading off with a favorite family recipe to whet the reader’s appetite. As she says in her poem “Dieting,” we spend much of our time obsessing about food. Some are addicted to eating, while others are addicted to not eating. Better to take a lesson from animals:

Self-consciousness doesn’t ruin

their appetite or enjoyment.
They don’t judge what they consume,
or long for what they won’t allow themselves.

They don’t confuse who they are
with what they eat,
fearing they won’t be loved
if they’re fat, or don’t cook,
or overcook, or nearly kill themselves
by making up for their gluttony
with fasting.

Julia explores the complicated relationship humans have with food by fixing a personal lens on her own family. In artfully crafted scenes, (a mother keeping her daughter out of the kitchen so she won’t see her drinking, a young woman bringing home a bohemian boyfriend to dinner at her mother’s “immaculate table,” a woman aching for her deceased mother as she comes across her handwriting on recipe cards), the subtexts of pain, regret, loss, and contention are plated to perfection. Her descriptions of food are lyrical and sensual, her voice intimate and honest, her ability to align what is being eaten with what eats away at the heart and soul is powerful.

Since so many of you enjoyed Julia’s poem, “My Mother’s Handwriting,” I know you’ll find her thoughts about writing, familial relationships, and the love of horses interesting.

Naturally, I asked her to share a recipe. Peanut Butter Pie, anyone? :)

*   *   *

♦ JULIA WENDELL ON TAKE THIS SPOON ♦

How did Take This Spoon come about? Have you always been interested in writing food poems?

On my mother’s death, I inherited my mother’s enormous stack of cookbooks, recipe boxes and folders. I was moved by seeing again my mother’s handwriting—so vivid and alive, as if she had just written the cards yesterday. How odd that our handwriting becomes a kind of legacy, as a poem can.

I paused at my favorite dishes, plucking out a few to try again. . . . and I thought, what a shame if these family favorites don’t somehow get preserved and passed on. I came up with the idea of compiling them into a homespun book, as Christmas presents for my grown kids, John and Caitlin. As I was working on the project, memories cascaded—of my mother and I at work together in the kitchen, of my original family at the table, of my own troubled relationship with food and alcohol—and I started writing poems that sprang from the memories provoked by those recipes and dishes.

I finished the project. The “cookbook” had maybe 50 recipes in it, and a handful of poems. I fished through old photos, took pictures of some of the dishes, designed the cookbook myself on Blurb.com. Christmas came and went. The kids loved the gift. Now they wouldn’t have to call me Thanksgiving morning to ask how to cook the turkey—once again. I’m not sure this was actually an asset.

Julia’s parents

I couldn’t let the project go, and I kept writing poems about my past and present relationship with food. It wasn’t till I was editing the book with April Ossmann’s guidance, that I realized I was writing a book of poems framed by the recipes, and not the other way around. Most of the original dishes were subsequently taken out of the manuscript, although I have begun to include them on my blog at www.JuliaWendell.com.

Which poem in this collection are you most proud of? Please take us through its evolution from initial spark to finished work. How did writing it stretch you as a poet?

Probably “Addictions,” although I expect that this conclusion may change over time. Not only does “Addictions” deal with the most troublesome subject matter, but it also is the longest poem in the collection—a long poem in short sections which overlap and flow together as a whole narrative—this was the intention, anyway.

Long poems are always harder to write than shorter poems—at least for me—to sustain one note over a greater period of time is more difficult than to snapshot a moment in time, akin to the arc of the short story versus the longer, more complicated arc of the novel. You have to be able to hold the whole in your head as you’re struggling to articulate and polish the parts, and this isn’t easy for me, when the parts are many, and so difficult to convey. Like Major Jackson says, “It’s important for the train to make many stops along the route.”

Julia riding her three-star event horse Cavendish at Bromont.

Several of your poems examine the push and pull of the mother-daughter relationship. What are your favorite food-related memories of your mother and your daughter?

I wrote of these favorite (and sometimes painful) memories in the book—stirring endlessly the cheese soufflé as my mother flitted around the kitchen in her frilly apron, constantly sipping her vodka as she searched for the next ingredient. I was always the designated stirrer, because it was too difficult for my mother with her arthritic fingers. Years later, my own fingers are knobby and crooked and painful, and each time I look at them I realize that I carry my mother within me, and that I also inherited her passion for deliciously-rich shortcuts, when it comes to food.

My daughter developed into a food health nut—no help from me—rather than embracing my culinary tastes, she has renounced them. She is more interested in coconut milk, Greek yogurts, superfood smoothies and braised kale than she is my mother’s cheese soufflé or chocolate sauce. I never welcomed her into my kitchen in the same way my mother welcomed me, because unlike my own mother, I didn’t want her to see me constantly sipping.

Caitlin was also never that interested, for one thing, and for another—well, we have always gotten along better when we haven’t had to depend on each other or work as a team. It’s just the way Caitlin and I jive. And yet, though her tastes are radically different than mine, she is every bit as obsessed with her versions of food as I am of mine.

Tell us a little about how your passion for horses feeds your writing. Do you think you’re a better poet for having left academia behind?

Oh, I don’t know that I’m a better poet for having left academia behind. I’m sure I’ve lost out on a lot of personal education, not to mention all the contacts and connections. But I made a distinct choice to experience the life my poems would draw from. I’m a doer more than a thinker, I almost hate to admit this—but it’s the truth. I do things, and then I write about them.

Horses have always been a part of my life, since I was a child bumming around on horseback through the wilds of western Pennsylvania—and a return to what made me happiest growing up was inevitable in my sustainability of happiness as an adult. Horses are a large part of what formed me growing up, and they continue to be my mainstay today—every bit as much as the next poem is.

You tackle painful, soul baring subjects like addiction and anorexia head on. Is writing poetry its own addiction? What compels you to write?

I’ve always written and it’s just who I am. Writing is not a need for me, it’s more like a personality trait.

Who are some of your favorite poets writing today?

Billy Collins, Donald Hall, Jack Gilbert, Mark Strand, David St. John, Louise Gluck, Norman Dubie, the late Larry Levis and Jane Kenyon. The more accessible the better. I’m also a huge fiction reader—I have to be in the middle of a novel at all times. More recently I’ve read and loved Sebastian Barry’s A Long Long Way, Charlotte Rogan’s The Lifeboat, Adelle Waldman’s The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P, Elizabeth Gilbert’s The Signature of All Things, Chris Bohjalian’s Skeletons at the Feast, Elizabeth Strout’s Olive Kitteridge, Abraham Verghese’s Cutting for Stone, to name a few. I read to be entertained, both fiction and poetry. I’m neither a reader nor a writer who enjoys obscurity. It must be well written, and it must be clearly spoken.

Is there anything else you’d like us to know about Take This Spoon?

Whether it’s addiction, divorce, sickness, professional disappointments, whatever we are all working through the negatives in our lives toward the positives. I am essentially an unhappy person, but I am always striving toward my opposite. I would like to get there some day, if only briefly.

Please share a recipe and provide a little backstory about it.

Here’s one of my mother’s simplest—and most delicious—dishes I’ve ever eaten—Peanut Butter Pie. Once again, I was a critical aspect of the concoction, as it requires lots of stirring and beating. I believe the original comes from The Deer Head Restaurant in Spring Creek, Pennsylvania, where you could also get the best coleslaw in the world—although the chef would not share his secrets for that dish with my mother.

*   *   *

PEANUT BUTTER PIE

Whoever eats a piece is guaranteed to ask for the recipe, and this is one you may be embarrassed to pass along because of its simplicity. I’ve even used frozen store-bought pie crusts and you can hardly tell the difference, the pie innards are that good. The secret is lots and lots of beating.

• 1/2 cup butter
• 1/2 cup peanut butter
• 2 eggs
• 1 teaspoon vanilla
• baked, cold pie crust
• Whipped cream

Beat butter until light and fluffy. Add peanut butter and beat again. Add eggs, one at a time. Beat 5 minutes, first egg, and 3 minutes, second egg. Add vanilla. Blend well. Pour into baked crust and chill until firm. Top with whipped cream.

*This recipe is included in Take This Spoon, along with recipes for:

• Cheese Soufflé
• Seizure Salad
• Rum Balls
• Cheese Wafers
• Spaghetti Aglio e Olio
• Chocolate Sauce

*   *   *

TAKE THIS SPOON
by Julia Wendell
published by Main Street Rag Publishing Co., 2014
Poetry Chapbook, 76 pp.

* Visit Julia’s website to learn more about Take This Spoon and all her other books.

* Click here for information about Julia’s and her husband Barrett Warner’s horse farm up in Northern Baltimore County.

* In case you missed the post where I shared her poem “My Mother’s Handwriting,” click here.

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The always welcoming and oftentimes hilarious Catherine Johnson is hosting today’s Roundup. Check out all the cool poetic offerings being served up in the blogosphere this week and enjoy your weekend!

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Copyright © 2014 Jama Rattigan of Jama’s Alphabet Soup. All rights reserved.

Mr. Cornelius Cucumber

While looking for more children’s books illustrated by Lena Anderson, I was happy to discover Anna’s Garden Songs – a whimsical, light-hearted collection of 14 fruit and veggie poems written by Mary Q. Steele.

Garden favorites like peas, potatoes, tomatoes, lettuce, cabbage, beets and onions take their place in the sun with playful rhyming verse and Lena’s fanciful pictures. I may as well confess right now that I’ve always had a thing for giant vegetables, so when I saw how Lena fiddled with scale in this book I squealed with delight. :)

Blond, mostly barefoot, bespectacled Anna is just adorable as she plants, harvests and shares the garden’s bounty with her friends, grandfather, and large pet rabbit, who happily scampers through the pages and almost steals the show (he’s especially good at nibbling and napping).

From the moment I opened the book and saw Anna hiding in that big pea pod, I knew I was in for a real treat. I can’t decide which I like most — Anna sitting atop a giant beet, relaxing amongst the tomato plants, or wearing a dress made from lettuce leaves.

The poems, which are linked with a loose storyline, capture the sweet magic of growing edible plants — the surprise of pulling up a radish to discover its ruby red root, befriending a carrot and fennel who are seeing the world above ground for the first time. Anna and her friends take such joy in eating, too (a rhubarb tart, a radish salad picnic, a tomato garden party, a picnic table lunch complete with cabbage leaf plates).

Towards the end Anna sets up a little vegetable stand and then enjoys all the spicy scents of her mother’s herb garden (rabbit is napping, of course). The final poem is a wistful goodbye to summer and hello to autumn with a bouquet of late blooming nasturtiums.

What a breath of fresh air, a sheer delight. Here are a few sample poems to nibble on.

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BEET

I do not think I’ll eat
This beet.
Too much of it is red,
Too much of it is head.
I do not think I’ll eat
This beet.

*    *    *

RHUBARB

This rhubarb leaf above my head
Is big enough to cast a shade.
The leaf is green, the stem is red,
And yesterday my mother made
A rhubarb tart for us to eat.
The crust was good, the filling sweet.
But still I think that after all
It makes a better parasol.

*   *   *

CHERRY

Peter and I
Are in this tree
Picking cherries,
One, two, three . . .
Twenty, thirty, forty more,
Cherries on this tree
Galore!
Seventy, eighty, ninety-one,
Oh, this picking will
Never be done!
We’ll pick until the moon comes up
And then I think
We’ll have
To stop.

*   *   *

ANNA’S GARDEN SONGS
written by Mary Q. Steele
illustrated by Lena Anderson
published by Greenwillow Books, 1989.
Poetry Picture Book for ages 4-8, 32 pp.

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The delightful and talented Buffy Silverman is hosting today’s Roundup at Buffy’s Blog. Perhaps you’d like to drift over in a giant pea pod so you can sample all the cool poetic offerings being served up in the blogosphere this week.

Do you have a vegetable garden?

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Copyright © 2014 Jama Rattigan of Jama’s Alphabet Soup. All rights reserved.