Jambalaya by Diane Schauer

Jambalaya by Diane Schauer

Jambalaya, jambalaya,
Today's the day for jambalaya.
You don't like it? You're a liar!
Try my jamba, jambalaya.

Rice is the start for jambalaya;
Spice is the heart of jambalaya.
Oregano--way to go!
A little thyme--mighty fine!
Without chili? Don't be silly!
Tomatoes, pepper; mouth afire!
Jamba, jamba jambalaya.

Pitch in chicken; toss some shrimp in.
Don't go scrimpin' with jambalaya!
Crown with crayfish. Delish!
Jamba, jamba, jambalaya.

You'll spear pork with your fork
When you dig into jambalaya.
Garlic, onion add to the fun in
Jamba, jamba, jambalaya.

It's kickin', finger-lickin'!
A meal that fills my soul's desire.
Pass your plate; let's celebrate with
Jamba, jamba, jambalaya.

The Essence of Dominguero Life by Sonya Bacheller

The Essence of Dominguero Life
By Sonya Bacheller
Wine, lot's of wine... and music!
Smells of sizzling, greasy pork chops
and sounds of laughter and conversation drift on the breeze.
This is what being a Dominguero in Spain is all about.
It's Sunday ('Domingo' in Spanish): time to relax with family and friends -
anywhere, as long as it's outside.
Time to bitch about what happened at work
or gossip about the ex-family friend;
children play ball or hide and seek;
round, well-fed fathers lie in the grass,
their tummies poking out from under their stained shirts;
guitar strumming and a choir of out-of-tune twenty-year-olds
serenade their fellow Domingueros.
Ensaladilla, pan con tomate, tortilla de patata,
chuletas de cerdo, sandia y melon.
These dishes just don't taste the same at the dining room table.

Plums by Beth Russell

Plums
By Beth Russell

My mother showed me how to eat the fruit that had fallen from the old tree, picking up one plum after another. “That one’s too soft, see how the skin is wrinkled. Your finger can sink right into it.” She threw it toward the chicken pen. “This one has a hole, a bug has been at it.” She discarded that one, too. “This one is still green. See, it looks blue on this side but on this side its too pale. And feel it. It’s hard. That one will be sour.” She tossed it aside. “But look at this one. See how blue it is? Purple, if you rub the dust away. And look, it gives just a little under my fingers. Try this one.” Her rough hand offered it to me.

The surprise of that first tasting was the tight pop of the skin as it gave, spilling plum sugar across my curious tongue. Awash in delight I sucked the dense flesh away from the almond shaped stone, discovered the pit and spit it carefully into my small hand. “That’s its seed,” my mother said, and I marveled at its woodenness, then threw it at my little brother, Ben, who had come ambling over, curious to know what I was eating. While she chose for him, I began to forage, determined to get the good ones before he did.

Within the hour I had become a connoisseur, able to detect, even before I tasted, that firm full weight that marks the perfect plum. I learned the trick of biting away half, so that I could pull out the stone with my fingers and lick the hollow its absence made. I found that I could slide my tongue into that hollow, so that the fruit clung to me, the smooth outer skin fitting perfectly into the arc my palate. I showed my brother the trick, and he showed me the prize he had found. A big one. Ripened to perfection. The plum of plums.
“Give it to me,” I said.

My brother, at four, trusted me endlessly. He yielded his prize without a fuss. Grinning, I took a triumphant bite, expecting to encounter nothing less than perfection.
Which, when I bit down, was not what I found. My teeth, grown greedy and complacent, encountered something unexpected between skin and stone. I felt a small thing wriggle in my mouth. Puzzled, I looked at the part I still held in my hand. There it was, like a botanical illustration: cross section of a fruit with larval wasp. My eager bite had exposed an insect’s tunnel, and severed its soft body, leaving the head and thorax, pulsing at the hole’s dead end.
I had already swallowed. I threw the fruit down and ran for the hose, spat and spat and spat, filled my mouth and gargled and swished and vehemently spit, but I could not wash away that alien sensation. My brother watched my contortions unperturbed, munching away, his face sticky with juice. I wanted it to be his fault, I ran at him to punish him for what had happened to me, but my mother saw it coming and stepped between us.

“You got greedy,” she said. “Next time, look before you bite.” She reached to pick one off the tree. “See, this one’s good. There’s no hole.” I took it from her, examined the purple perfection of its taut skin. I saw the place at the top where the stem had been; my stomach lurched and I pushed her hand away. “That’s the place where it was attached to the tree, she laughed. She pushed against the tiny indentation, pulling the dark globe into its two halves. “See, there’s no bug in here.” She offered me the butterflied fruit. I considered it.
She considered me, and then took half. Watching it go in, I shuddered, but I wanted to taste what she was tasting. She smiled her delight in it. Leaning forward, she brought her lips toward my lips. I puckered to kiss her and suddenly the other half of the fruit was there, pressed gently into the place at the middle of my kiss. And I let my mouth go soft, I said yes. I opened again to that sweet, sweet thing.

Proof of Life by Jennifer Rinterknecht

Proof of Life
By Jennifer Rinterknecht

I can not remember his face that morning, but I see clearly the brown and silver geometry of the wallpaper above his head where the ceiling slanted over the bed. I also remember being very aware of turning left instead of right at the top of the stairs each time I climbed to ask a question. He slept in the guest bedroom during his last few weeks.
That particular morning I decided to learn to bake bread. I got out the old spiral Betty Crocker that had been my parent’s as newlyweds and began a process of patience and hope.
The recipe told me that I needed to start by proofing the yeast. I filled a glass measuring cup with ¼ cup warm water and dissolved 2 and a half teaspoons of dry yeast into it. Then I waited for the surface of the liquid to show signs of life, what the cook book described as bubbly and frothy looking. If the yeast bubbled it was active and my bread would rise; if it bubbled I could move on to the next step.
The first time I mixed the water and yeast I watched impatiently. No bubbles. I stirred some more and waited with my eye level to the glass measuring cup. No eruptions on the placid milky brown surface. I walked up the stairs. Turned left.
“Dad” I said. “The yeast is not bubbling.”
“Your water is probably not warm enough.” He said. “Try again.”
I walked back down the stairs to the kitchen, dumped out the old water and yeast and rinsed the measuring cup. New water, fresh yeast. Clink and stir. I waited. No bubbles. I stirred again. Waited. Still no bubbles. Back up the stairs. Turned left. “Dad, There are still no bubbles.”
“Your water must be too hot then.” He said. “ Try again.”
Back down the stairs. New water. Clink and stir. A little froth. No bubbles. Back up the stairs. “Dad, does froth count?”
“No, it has to bubble to be sure. Test the water on your wrist as if you were testing a baby’s bottle. If you can not feel the water then you know it is the right temperature.”
Before returning down the stairs I looked at him. I had never prepared a baby’s bottle, but I thought about the hundreds of bottles he must have prepared for me and my sister. I imagined him testing milk on his wrist. The right temperature would be so familiar to him that he could feel probably still feel it on his skin from memory. I felt the desperation of my attempt to bake bread. I went back down the stairs.
I ran the water in the sink and stuck my index finger under the flow. Caught a drop. Let the drop fall on my wrist. Was it hot or cold? Could I feel it? What I felt was a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes. Why was I supposed to feel nothing? Why couldn’t he just come down the stairs to help me?
I wanted to bake a beautiful brown loaf of bread that would rise and fill the house with the smell of warmth and security and activity. I needed proof of life in more than just my glass measuring cup and all I had was ambiguous froth.
After the third attempt I did not go up the stairs. Instead I stood at the bottom and called up, “It’s still not working!” I don’t remember if I tried again. I do not know if a loaf of bread came out of that morning. I only remember the endless attempts and frustration. Why was proofing necessary? We don’t get proof of anything else in life. We don’t get proof of love or long life. No one can guarantee that your dad will be around to meet his grandchildren.
Today I never proof my yeast. My bread rises or falls as it will. This morning was my first experiment with wild yeast. This seems riskier to me and more rewarding. My dark brown loaf attracts a crowd to the kitchen. My children want to taste this proof of life.

Conversion by Maynard Freemole

CONVERSION
By Maynard Freemole
Fish was penance, the watery, pallid flesh that hid its taste in the jab and threat of bones, hateful. And that gloppy, lumpy white sauce—was supposed to help? The deep-fried and breaded disguises didn't clear the palate either. When life gives you lemons, don't put it on fish. I learned the joys of abstinence and the blessings of hunger over fish.

Through decades of cautious nibbling and subtle fork-play, I scattered the insult around the plate, bits hidden like frightened minnows under garnishes or in debris of baked potato. I eschewed seafood with the fervor with which other people drooled at mere mention of the mess (another reason to avoid the whole kettle when I could).

When compelled, though, I held fishing poles along watery shores with the best of them, for the sake of companionship mostly, as if letting friends fish alone was like letting them drink alone, which I was loathe to do. The two sports often conflated, a sort of fish-spawned biathlon testing who could really drink like one. But I practiced knottiness and snarls so much more than wetting lines or whistles that comrades caught me casting aspersions and gradually cut me loose. Catch and release.

Then came October. Sapphire skies and crimson sunsets. Light rains as mountains shed the lassitude of Indian summer. Last shot of the season, a friend said, so up we went, following the grumble of gravel up several roads less traveled, until their switchbacks elbowed out mushrooms, a hatful of wild shaggy manes fresh from the depths of damp dirt and shadowy sun. The lake proved harder to find, deeper in cloud and rumor. Anything living there would be deeper yet, down where roots winter dark and safe.

But the outlet still flowed, still sang an invitation that caught two cut-throat by surprise at the end of our lines. Enough, my friend drooled, and we buried them in campfire coals after gutting their fat, finny innards for the finer stuff of mushrooms. We sang loud to warn away bears, and fanned the coals star-white.

Now give me fish. Even those with stares glassy as the mad moon's glare bait my appetite. My mouth waters. A tide has turned. It was not the perfection of pink flesh alone, though, the willowy yield of graceful bones that unlocked my land-bound buds. The stars swam their old rivers of light overhead, and wilderness danced at our fire's edge all night. And more: that instant when the silvered energy shuddered through my arms like thunder where the depth of its pulse plunged toward lightning.

Sphere of Life by Krista Reichard

Sphere of Life
by Krista Reichard
Think fat and profound.
Plumpness IS for them, like the serene Buddha on my table.
Tomato, berry-blue, melon, orange...I chew on those words, with pleasure.
They are gifts of the Earth,
But directly from the Sun,
Formed in its own shape.
Why round?
Energy in, energy out.
Powerhouses, their vibrant flesh protects my flesh from our radiant provider.
A cyclic gift, around and a-round.
My little Buddhas burst (into my conscious?)
Juice runs down my chin.
I watch it fall a drop at a time back to our orb.

At the Table by Ann Staley

AT THE TABLE
What do we want to be made of?
Gary Paul Nabhan


My father’s preferences influenced
everything my mother did in the kitchen
and fueled her resentments, too.
No fan of vegetables, no foodie,
Dad sat quietly waiting for his plate
said “Thanks” or “This is good, Bets” occasionally.

In the kitchen he made percolating pots of Maxwell House,
left a tidy counter top, a neat stack of dishes in the sink.
For greens Dad preferred iceberg lettuce, lima beans
and canned peas - tiny ones sprinkled with pearl onions.

Since that first table I’ve diversified.
Love asparagus, artichokes, and leafy green things:
romaine, cilantro, chives and chard,
arugula, watercress, kale and mint,
basil, spinach, flat-leaf parsley -
beet and collard greens in season.

On a summer visit when he was in his 80’s
(my mother a ghost in this tableaux)
Dad sat through a birthday dinner of his favorites -
meat loaf, baked potatoes and salad.
In my kitchen, after chocolate cake
and steaming French Roast in tiny cups,
he commented wryly, with a kind of gentlemanly awe,
“What was all that stuff.”


Ann Staley
August 2006