Poem: February 26, 2019

Eating In

Food is so much better when it comes with a story.
The cheap white wine we discovered in the cabana bar
in St. Pete that really takes off two bottles in,
or the jambalaya and bread pudding we learned to cook
in New Orleans, or drinking sazeracs at the Roosevelt,
and oh my God that dress you wore that foggy night
when we drifted through four courses at NOLA, or
the word play of the filets and manhattans we consumed
at Bobby Flay's Mesa Grill in (where else?) Manhattan.
Or the berry tart from Artist Point that we shared
on our anniversary that has become a staple for nights
when we gather with our families or friends.
Or the aebleskiver recipe Annie and I learned and
that you now request every Christmas morning despite
the mess and the likelihood of burns from the process
and the necessity of the special pan and the time it takes
to even make them, and it's best if enough time passes
that we forget how much extra effort is tied to that request.
Or the recipes I return to as representatives of when
I was so poor, I was just happy to provide at all.
Or the recipes we've concocted ourselves over time,
our culinary canon: your meatloaf and mashed potatoes,
my gumbo or pasta salad or cornbread stuffing,
Dirck's and my andouille sausage and 6 alarm chili,
Mom's flank steak and pilaf and candied noodles.
Our whole lives reflected in food, collected and kept
in binders and on index cards or scrawled on paper.
Food that functions like bookmarks for our memories,
or like the poetry we return to when we're tired
of all the easy and empty calories we consume.