Tag Archives: food

Thanksgiving

This poem fits right into the true feel of what it is like to gather with family members and is a great portrait of several different personalities and characters. There is so much of it that feels southern yet the story is set in Connecticut. It just shows you how connected we all are. Happy Thanksgiving!

Thanksgiving                                                                                                Martín Espada

This was the first Thanksgiving with my wife’s family,
sitting at the stained pine table in the dining room.
The wood stove coughed during her mother’s prayer:
Amen and the gravy boat bobbing over fresh linen.
Her father stared into the mashed potatoes
and saw a white battleship floating in the gravy.
Still staring at the mashed potatoes, he began a soliloquy
about the new Navy missiles fired across miles of ocean,
how they could jump into the smokestack of a battleship.
“Now in Korea,” he said, “I was a gunner and the people there
ate kimch’i and it really stinks.” Mother complained that no one
was eating the creamed onions. “Eat, Daddy.” The creamed onions
look like eyeballs, I thought, and then said, “I wish I had missiles
like that.” Daddy laughed a 1950s horror-movie mad-scientist laugh,
and told me he didn’t have a missile, but he had his own cannon.
“Daddy, eat the candied yams,” Mother hissed, as if he were
a liquored CIA spy telling secrets about military hardware
to some Puerto Rican janitor he met in a bar. “I’m a toolmaker.
I made the cannon myself,” he announced, and left the table.
“Daddy’s family has been here in the Connecticut Valley since 1680,”
Mother said. “There were Indians here once, but they left.”
When I started dating her daughter, Mother called me a half-Black,
But now she spooned candied yams on my plate. I nibbled
at the candied yams. I remembered my own Thanksgivings
in the Bronx, turkey with arroz y habichuelas and plátanos,
and countless cousins swaying to bugalú on the record player
or roaring at my grandmother’s Spanish punch lines in the kitchen,
the glowing of her cigarette like a firefly lost in the city. For years
I thought everyone ate rice and beans with turkey at Thanksgiving.
Daddy returned to the table with a cannon, steering the black
steel barrel. “Does that cannon go boom?” I asked. “I fire it
in the backyard at the tombstones,” he said. “That cemetery bought
up all our farmland during the Depression. Now we only have
the house.” He stared and said nothing, then glanced up suddenly,
like a ghost had tickled his ear. “Want to see me fire it?” he grinned.
“Daddy, fire the cannon after dessert,” Mother said. “If I fire
the cannon, I have to take out the cannonballs first,” he told me.
He tilted the cannon downward, and cannonballs dropped
from the barrel, thudding on the floor and rolling across
the brown braided rug. Grandmother praised the turkey’s thighs,
said she would bring leftovers home to feed her Congo Gray parrot.
I walked with Daddy to the backyard, past the bullet holes
in the door and his pickup truck with the Confederate license plate.
He swiveled the cannon around to face the tombstones
on the other side of the backyard fence. “This way, if I hit anybody,
they’re already dead,” he declared. He stuffed half a charge
of gunpowder into the cannon, and lit the fuse. From the dining room,
Mother yelled, “Daddy, no!” Then the battlefield rumbled
under my feet. My head thundered. Smoke drifted over
the tombstones. Daddy laughed. And I thought: When the first
drunken Pilgrim dragged out the cannon at the first Thanksgiving-
that’s when the Indians left.

 

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Ten Reasons Your Prayer Diet Won’t Work

I don’t know a woman who is happy with her weight. That said, there’s no reason why you can’t have fun coming up with a new life plan.

Ten Reasons Your Prayer Diet Won’t Work                                 Nancy Pagh

1.

Praying to god that you will be thin

instead of eating

only burns eleven calories

at average fervency.

2.

Jesus had large love handles.

I know in the pictures he’s skinny

and White

with slightly Italian-esque features,

but he understood the value

of keeping on a few extra pounds

to tide him over in the desert.

If you are a child of god

this runs in your family.

3.

All food miracles create more:

more loaves, more fishes, more wine, more manna…

When you ask god to do something about fat

expect multiplication.

4.

The only time you used to talk to god

was giving thanks before high-caloric meals.

Your fat cells remember this

and begin to swell

even at the mention of his name.

5.

God has stock in Doritos.

6.

Eventually you will tell yourself

that god created you this way

and who are you to disagree?

7.

Contrary to popular belief,

eating is not a mortal sin per se-

and god believes in free will.

8.

Bread & wine. Communion would suggest

god endorses Mediterranean Diet

instead.

9.

Blasphemy, to waste German chocolate cake.

10.

God is characterized by excess;

your only proof that god exists

is that the natural world is more than it has to be.

 

Perhaps the closest you’ve come

to acting in her perfect image

was building your sacred hips.

After the Accident

This poem is full of lovely images because they are painted specifically and succinctly. The poem builds as it moves from one thing to the next, the pay off as it concludes hits the heart. Don’t think the narrator doesn’t have choices, if you’ve missed her power take another look at the poem.

After the Accident                                                         Sue Ellen Thompson

the old rose-colored Buick turns in

past the rows of slush-covered cars

with webbed windshields and wrinkled doors.

My father steps out, unfolding himself

on the ice-slick asphalt with an old bird’s grace

and stands, hands at the back of his waist,

leaning against the sky. My mother,

buoyed along by her puffed blue coat,

is all scurry and search as she hurries

toward me through the glass door marked

“Service,” her arms already rising

from her sides. Swept up into

the car’s small warmth, I let myself

be taken to lunch, I let them order for me—

a cheeseburger in the golden arms

of mounded onion rings, a cookie the size

of my own spread palm

weighted with chocolate. I eat

and I eat, as if I’d been trapped

in that snow choked ravine for days,

as if food were love and I could absorb it,

turning it into flesh the way

they turned their love into me.

But seeing all that is left—a thinnish woman

in her forties without a car, without

even a purse, they must think

it is not enough. So they feed me and I

eat, and all that keeps me from an infant’s sleep

is who will carry me home when they are gone?