September 2016
j.lewis
jim.lewis@jimbabwe.com
​This little collection of food poems touches on several different inspirations. There’s my love of chocolate. Also an homage poem for a friend who had to interrupt her poetry to bring in the harvest. My time in France let me easily imagine a devout French woman quietly praying as she prepared a special meal. Lastly, I am from New Mexico, and had such childhood adventures as milk squirted from the cow’s teat straight into my mouth. Thanks, grandpa! Not the same as a cold glass from the carton, nicely homogenized and pasteurized. Rather like poetry. Some like it hot and raw, others can’t take it like that. It’s all delicious in its own way. Bon appetit!
 
more than cake


rich chocolate aroma 
permeates every room
teases taste buds and laughs aloud
at the sudden contraction
of salivary glands
stomach set growling 
like a dog with a new bone

coaxes memories out of hiding
plays the lost recording
of mother laughing
as you lick the spoon
dark batter dotting your nose

coats your throat with pleasure-pain
ice cold milk in giant gulps
an almost headache forming
it hurts so good
to remember





feed the body, feed the soul


ripe-ready for harvest
each carefully nurtured plant
surrenders bountiful blessings

red, round tomatoes coyly wink
from quilted green coverlets
blushing to be discovered
so firm, so full

so too, melon, squash,
cucumber, and zucchini
part hidden, part peeping
sign their quiet gratitude
for months of watered watching

so much to do today
like yesterday and again tomorrow
stove hissing merrily beneath
every available pot and pan
fruits and vegetables taking
their communal baptism seriously
releasing essence of peach and pear
corn and carrot
tomato and potato
everything goes to jars
for the unknown winter ahead

by chance or by design
the hurried steps from kitchen
to pantry, to garden
lead past a bulging bookshelf
where titles call like children
begging "read me, read me"
ignorant, every one, of the stain
of one sauce or another 
on fingers wet with wonder

she hesitates, wipes her hands
on the last dry patch of apron
and reaches into october, whispering
"just one stanza, one poem, no more"
savoring the words that dissolve in her mind
like sugared pecans in an autumn mouth

impatient harvest interrupts— 
boiling splash of the future 
on stove-top calling her back
to the urgency of canning
where she will stir and lift
to the rhythm of the latest poem
that simply won't be still





Le Gigot Qui Pleure* 
Recipe/Rosary

Take a leg of lamb
          Oh, Lamb of God, the lone, the great I AM
Spike with slivered garlic cloves
          Whose wounded side was cruelly pierced for me
Rub with rosemary, salt and pepper
          Then wrapped with fragrant spice against the grave--
Place in preheated oven for one hour, collect drippings.
          That night thou suffered in Gethsemane
          That wicked men should thus be thine to save,
          Unholy pain caused Holy tears to flow,
Cut potatoes into thin, even Slices
          And this thou didst to cut away my sin.
Dot with butter, season with garlic and salt
          O, Balm of Gilead, Savior of all men, 
Sprinkle potatoes with fat from roasting lamb
          Thy blood, applied, will cover my transgression.
Put potatoes in oven with lamb and bake until done
          So purify me, Lord, in that same fire
          That I may bend my will to thy desire,
Makes six to eight servings.
          And fit me for thy service, through confession,
          That I may sup with thee, thou Weeping Lamb.

*"Weeping Leg of Lamb" - French Recipe
(This poem appears in “a clear day in october”, my first book of poetry)


pasturized


words
said my farmer friend
especially in poetry
are like milk
fresh from the cow
rich with cream
and warm
and if you are writing
for a scattered few
who like to drink
straight from the source
and don't mind
an occasional extra bit
that ain't supposed to be there
well
go on and write just like you do
however
most folks i know
prefer milk cold
pasteurized
homogenized
in a pretty package
©2016 j.lewis
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