[lit-ideas] Re: Sunday Poem, For Erin (who is passing tonight on a bus between Portland and San Francisco) in sympathy

  • From: David Ritchie <ritchierd@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
  • To: <lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
  • Date: Sat, 27 Aug 2005 21:25:19 -0700

Food must be good.
Bring it to me lukewarm,
or over-done,
or drowned in butter,
or over-salty or badly battered,
or wrong in any number of ways...
vegetables boiled to extinction...
and I shall complain.

Cooking matters.
When my knives are blunted,
or the gas is choked off by gobs of spilled crud,
or someone stands where no one should, obviously in the way,
or fresh herbs are not available today...

So allow me to demonstrate, card held high.
I'm cooking for twelve in an alien kitchen.
It's a challenge;
the glove goes down, first rolling pin wins.
Through the miracle of words (with slight delay)
we visit the scene.

I glaze root vegetables on high heat,
and then, using the microwave for insulation only,
I put them, like men behind the ridge at Waterloo, to wait:
heavy-coated, 
crisp, 
unbombarded,
a solid start.

In an iron pan the onions,
slide with rosemary across the buttery, oiled floor.
What an elegant, fragrant pair they make,
Rogers and Astaire.
Outside, while the grill reaches white heat,
the meat--sorry we're omnivores here-- marinated in wine,
now lies naked beside, but not touching, salmon,
which we have covered with lemon thyme.
Now the green beans and garlic start, like hundred meter sprinters,
shut off almost before they go,
to return later for a second brief heat.
The spuds and artichokes bubble to two quite different drummers,
the ones aiming at a full hour's undoing,
the others, needing just a modest par.

Next?
We put on sizzling heat the asparagus and lightly-oiled zucchini squash,
for no more than a quick flash,
followed by balsamic drizzle,
nearly--a fleeting thought--
sufficient for some weather report!

We rush back indoors with these and
now check all, 
to keep going.
We seize the hot potatoes and chop them.
We run back out into the heat,
start meat and fish on coals that glow,
but conjure no fire.

Back inside again, we splash the corn into boiling water,
then tumble spuds in herbs and virgin oil.
A glance towards the table,
and we tackle the pull, de-corking wines,
dutifully checking that all taste fine.

Miners and pioneers write
of letting smoke cook beef or horse or goat or what there was.
Since we're in Gold Country, the temptation to follow historically
is nearly overwhelming,
but these current tongues are less adventurous;
for fear people may complain,
we hold back, 
and leave the cue's cover off,
pacing heat which creeps two thirds through the thickness
before we flip all,
taking care not to crack the fish.

We take account,
measure who, what, where, when and how we sizzle.
Sweat tracks down.
We look around,
take the whole scene in,
pray that what little smoke there is
will keep mosquitos at bay.

Then all the mental clocks suddenly go off together, pronounce us done.
The diners come, take white wine and cheese and bread,
now they mingle.
Soon they sit, begin to eat,
pour out some red, sip.
The meal unfolds at time-lapse pace.
In contrast with before,
motion and conversation now ease,
to the speed of digestion.
There is no overtaking
on this single, bendy lane.
The children retire,
short of long-toothed desires,
but they do remain alert,
dog-eared for dessert.


David Ritchie
Portland, Oregon

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  • » [lit-ideas] Re: Sunday Poem, For Erin (who is passing tonight on a bus between Portland and San Francisco) in sympathy