All posts tagged: Poetry

When Friends Ask You to Pick Up Their CSA Share (Part 2)

You wonder if there is a poem out there that celebrates this moment. Between friends and between yourself and all the veggies, is there a poem? If not, perhaps you could write one, in the same breath as Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude, about every saturated-in-color vegetable and fruit that comes home with you on the first Saturday of September–this year and last. But if there is a chance you’ve been feeling less like a poet these days, meaning, you haven’t broken a line in a long while for the sake of sound, silence, and meaning, then you become–you are–a poet in your kitchen, roasting tomatoes with whole cloves of garlic. The woody scent of thyme and rosemary from your garden when met with high heat can make you long for the long, deliberate drizzle of rosemary-infused olive oil, and flaky salt, which you know your tomatoes love. You’ve a mind and heart towards Tory and Jon, who shared their share with you as they made their big move into Corona. Think of all the dinner …

my harlem lunch hour

slabs of seedless watermelon lush pink and bright yellow next door i’ve never had the yellow but i want yellow i want something close to sun heirloom tomatoes all the way from his garden in Jersey sit on storefront windowsills sunning til a red he is fond of blooms to then be chopped along with cucumbers and parsley a salad sold for simple souls at a shop called 7 Grains i order my usual no matter how hot of a day it is split pea unlike any other split pea with it’s ham-less, Moroccan flare. he takes out a bottle of all natural soy sauce and taps it over your legumes tap tap tap 3 times exactly. “we don’t use salt here.” but they sure use spice. i taste cumin. cayenne. garlic. paprika. “do you want a spoonful of brown rice with that?” yes. and then a final finishing tap of cayenne before it gets it’s lid and i hand over $4.50. back at work, i asked my boss’ son what he’s having for lunch. …

One of Many Ways to Eat Spring

When Spring returned to us in all its young green finery, I wanted to eat it. To squeeze a little lime on it in broad daylight and find my way, past the beefsteak tomatoes, standing strong on the sides of heirlooms, the tall, bruised green of the earth. The day before Easter, I grabbed the first asparagus of the season at my mom’s local farmers market and decided I was going to create a spring feast, highlighting these thick spears along with other bright and deep greens, such as peas, spring onions, cilantro, thyme, arugula. I wanted fava beans but I couldn’t find any. I stopped by my favorite kielbasa vendor and he handed me the cutest, smokiest ham I’ve ever held, and tasted. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with it then, but knew I had to leave with it. “You can use it as decoration for your Easter table,” he told me. I politely shook my head no. I can–and will–use it in everything throughout the week, beginning tomorrow. After tomorrow, …

a free-form shine

I’m right here sunlight opening up the sidewalk, opening up today’s breakfast black&white, & I’m about to be born again thinking of you –Ted Berrigan, Many Happy Returns Let’s keep this simple. There’s no sun. I need sun. Imma slice sweet gold, dress their light in citrus, hug all their yellow tight with buttery, flaky pie dough and call it a damn good day. Don’t forget the green. Never ever forget the cheese. Golden Beet & Feta Galette 1 chilled pie dough (adapted from Justin Chapple) 1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour Kosher salt and cracked pepper 1 stick unsalted butter, frozen 1/3 cup ice water tiny bit of orange zest if you’d like. that was a last sec decision for me and i loved it. In a large bowl, combine flour, salt and pepper, zest. Grate frozen butter over the flour and gently toss together. Stir in 1/3 cup of ice water until the dough is evenly moistened. Knead super gently and quickly. Pat into a round disc and chill for 1 hour. I sometimes make-ahead the dough …

where you are planted / bloom

I was a little tipsy on the dance of the velvety heart rolling in my mouth I was dumb-tipsy on the day. Connie and I didn’t know it yet, but walking first into Wave Hill’s Sunroom before lounging in all of it’s unabashed green was a high-five moment. We actually high-fived each other. I am writing about a summer day, nearing Winter, because of the chicken pot pie I had during this visit (I’ll get there soon). Anyway, if you know anything about my love of playing Skyrim (in which I live through my character who hand picks her flowers and shrooms for alchemical, kick-ass purposes), then you may begin to understand my excitement when I found this station of roots and flowers: That’s Connie, not hiding HER excitement whatsoever. What is there not to love about a hands-on, minds-off exhibition? There were bowls full of chrysanthemums, damiana leaves, angelica root, hops, lavender, rose buds, hibiscus and mugwort root. We were to take a mortar and pestle, fill it with whatever we chose from the bowls, …

Dal Recipe & Poem

In July, I was asked to read poems inspired by my neighborhood: Jamaica, Queens. I was even part of a panel, guys. WHAT!? I saw this as an opportunity for me to write about my favorite vegetarian Indian eatery (Annam Brahma), as well as my new love for cooking Indian cuisine right in the heart of home–my kitchen. The first kitchen I’ve felt the most comfortable in. I only started to mess around with these beautiful spices once I moved here, as they are sold in my nearest market and I can smell their warmth coming from the windows of various neighbors on my block. Love is another reason. Once I found out that Butter Chicken was Danny’s favorite, I wanted him to come home to the rich broth set to simmer on my stove. In the oven would always be a head of cauliflower that was doused in 1/2 a cup of olive oil, seasoned with turmeric, garlic powder, paprika, a generous amount of salt, roasted with slivers of jalapeño and garlic. It’s my …

Poetry & Coffee Picnic: 8/21/16

…I was gravy in judgment, which might not mean much unless you’ve taken a spoon of it and poured it back over a dumpling shaped like your heart                        –Tomás Q. Morín Once a month in Queens, NY, Valerie G. Keane has us talk poetry. Not our poetry, but poems written by poets we love and don’t love and/or don’t get. Poets whose name just popped up on our search engine once the month’s theme is established, too. I love Poetry & Coffee. If 15 people show up with a poem, I am going home with 15 poems I either never read before, or poems I haven’t had the opportunity to talk about, and that is pretty bad-ass, no? You cannot possibly be a better poet or HUMAN BEING without having read as much as you can read. You just can’t. I can’t. But it’s not just the reading part that triggers growth. It’s most definitely the sharing. I do not want to keep a good …