Pot Roast
I gaze upon the roast,
that is sliced and laid out
on my plate
and over it
I spoon the juices
of carrot and onion.
And for once I do not regret
The passage of time.
I sit by a window
that looks
on the soot-stained brick of buildings
and do not care that I see
no living thing-not a bird,
not a branch in bloom,
not a soul moving
in the rooms
behind the dark panes.
These days when there is little
to love or to praise
one could do worse
than yield
to the power of food.
So I bend
to inhale
the steam that rises
from my plate, and I think
of the first time
I tasted a roast
like this.
It was years ago
in Seabright,
Nova Scotia;
my mother leaned
over my dish and filled it
and when I finished
filled it again.
I remember the gravy,
its odor of garlic and celery,
and sopping it up
with pieces of bread.
And now
I taste it again.
The meat of memory.
The meat of no change.
I raise my fork in praise,
and I eat.
That is a food poem by one of my favorite poets, Mark Strand. By posting your own food poem in the comments section (any length, any form) you might just win yourself a ScanPan! You can also submit an unusual but successful egg recipe — quiche, frittata, scramble, whatever (not all cooks fancy themselves poets, after all, and everyone should have a shot). Robin and I will choose our favorite poems and recipes, aiming for a total of five entries (though we might include more if it’s close); then — because poems and recipes are in many ways subjective and because we’ll surely know some of the contestants — we’ll use the random number generator to pick the winner. Good luck!
Update: Whoops, I should have been clearer. Both poems and recipes must be original — lest, judging one masterwork after another, I be left feeling like a patient etherised upon a table. Seriously, though, I don’t see how it could work otherwise (Batali vs. Eliot vs. Joe the Blogger who thought to put something really tasty and inventive in his scrambled eggs…); I’m already pushing it by asking for poems and food. Those who’ve already submitted others’ poems/recipes should feel free to submit their own.
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January 13, 2009 at 12:48 pm
sadly I’m not a poet, though I have tried so my most recent egg creation it is. It isn’t fancy and I would say it is rather intuitive, but that may be because I live in the south west anyhow…
1 flour tortilla buttered lightly both sides
1 (or 2) eggs depending on how hungry you are
some guacamole
red chili (salsa roja)
cheese – either a cheddar or a creamy jack, pepper or otherwise
from there you can probably figure out the assembly… cook egg to liking (personally over-hard), then fry tortilla till crisp on both sides. Spread guacamole on tortilla, then your egg, then top with plenty of salsa roja and cheese of choice – enjoy.
January 13, 2009 at 1:19 pm
i want some bacon
i will cook it for myself
if you’ve got no time
January 13, 2009 at 2:55 pm
All I could think of poetically speaking was that silly bean one that cracked us up as kids. So much for my poetic abilities. So egg recipe it is! I’ve made this Mario Batali recipe for years and it’s just wonderful over some lightly dressed greens with roasted vegetables (whatever is in season) along side and some good crusty bread.
Frittata Salad: Frittatine Verdi in Insalata
1/2 cup fresh mint leaves
1/2 cup fresh basil leaves
1/2 cup fresh oregano leaves
1/2 cup fresh fennel fronds, plus extra for garnish
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
6 eggs
2 tablespoons plus 4 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 head escarole, cleaned and dried, roughly cut
Zest and segments of 2 oranges
1 lemon, juiced and zested
Chop together mint, basil, oregano, fennel fronds, salt and pepper until the size of bread crumbs. Place combined herbs and fennel into a mixing bowl. Crack the eggs into the same bowl. Mix well and season, to taste, with salt and pepper. Add 1/2 of the escarole to the egg mixture.
Place an 8 to 10-inch non-stick saute pan over medium heat. Add 1/2 tablespoon olive oil and heat until smoking. Add 1/3 of the egg mixture to the pan and cook the thin frittata until golden brown. Using a heat resistant spatula if necessary, flip the frittata over and cook on the other side. Remove to a plate to cool. Repeat process until the egg mixture is finished, placing each successive frittata on a different plate.
When the frittatas have cooled, stack 1 on top of the other and cut into 1/4-inch julienne strips. In a clean mixing bowl, combine the remaining escarole, the orange zest and segments, the remaining extra-virgin olive oil, lemon juice, and lemon zest. Season, to taste. Combine frittata strips with the escarole salad mixture. Garnish with fennel fronds. Serve immediately.
January 13, 2009 at 3:11 pm
Damn, I just pawed through my entire poetic output (now mostly nearing thirty years old) and could only come up with one tiny food-related poem, but here ’tis:
POLYPHLOISBOIO
A box of pasta swinging at my side:
The endless rasp of pebbles moving with the tide.
(Why yes, I had been reading Ezra Pound, specifically “In a Station of the Metro,” and Homer; why do you ask?) I found a poem called “Coffee Shop Blues,” but alas it’s about the cute waitress, not the menu.
Note to self: if you ever get back to writing poetry, don’t neglect the kitchen.
January 13, 2009 at 6:11 pm
Does it have to be a whole poem and does the focus have to be food or can food just be mentioned? And can non-US readers enter? Assuming the answer to all of these questions is “yes”:
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”
From “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T.S. Eliot
January 13, 2009 at 6:13 pm
Roses are red
Violets are blue,
I like to cook
I want a scanpan too.
January 13, 2009 at 6:18 pm
Yea…I just tried to write a poem with no success. I Like to add corn to any of the egg creations…makes it super yummy.
January 13, 2009 at 7:31 pm
Expired Baking Soda (a haiku)
The dough was yummy,
But when the cookies emerged,
They flattened my hopes.
January 13, 2009 at 7:43 pm
Are we allowed to post two poems and/or post one on which we had some help because we handed it in for an assignment for school? If so, here’s another (that I conveniently wrote right *before* finding out that a famous poet had already written a poem about going to the supermarket…)! :)
Supermarket
Roast chicken tonight.
There’s still some Saran-wrapped and
silver-trayed salmon
languishing in the fridge
(between jars of matzo-ball soup
and orange juice)
from last night’s glinting dinner party
thrown by that desperate daughter-in-law,
but
tonight I’m craving
a crispy-skinned thigh bone
or maybe a rolled, stuffed envelope of breast
(like mama would have made,
if she could have afforded it).
So,
here I am, wool slacks
hiding creaky knees and sore ankles,
strolling down the painfully-flourescented and
linoleumed aisles, passing
garish cereal box-cartoons
and miracle cleaners (believe you me, nothing works better
than baking soda)
until my fingers finally close
on the chill, firm flesh
of the poultry section.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
“Have you found everything
you’re looking for?”
eyes new-penny-bright doubtfully
alighting on the solitary chicken
in my palm. I know what they see:
wild puff of white
reined in by a headscarf,
clouded eyes once beautiful (but they wouldn’t know that),
knobby nose,
knobby hands,
knobby back.
I give them
what they expect (God knows
what they want):
a grunt, a wave of the hand
not clutching my prize (wedding band long gone, but
I notice it every time);
and they sigh and shrug young, impetuous shoulders,
turn on the springs of their heels and ignore once more
the ornery woman
on her way out— “The old lady has left the building!”
…but not before paying.
“That’ll be $8, please.”
hair red like mine was,
jaw round like mine was,
smile broad like mine was,
“You know, you have the most beautiful
cheekbones.” I
hand her the crumpled ten
from my linty, tissue-mint-lined
pocket, chortle, “Keep the change!” and
waltz out into the muggy whoosh of outside world, onetwothree onetwothree,
letting her gaze trail behind
like a Red Carpet.
Young again.
January 13, 2009 at 7:43 pm
P.S. By “help,” I mean I got comments from my professor on how to edit it…
January 14, 2009 at 5:25 am
Hooray for foodlit! Here’s my attempt at being cool:
My stomach growls at two in the morning.
I crawl out of the ruins,
once my desk.
My studio apartment
covered in exam prep.
No place for a dignified meal.
I avoid the urge to dial for pizza
and summon the strength to open my fridge.
A white box.
Innocuous?
Peek.
That isn’t right.
This was in fact from three weeks prior-
once a divine stuffed tenderloin,
now pungent with blue accents.
It goes back
into the fridge door while I rummage
for a treat.
A bag of homemade seed crackers
crispy
but lonely
awaiting love in the form of manchego
and Hungarian salami.
Missing something.
A shriveling Ambrosia apple
gets sliced into the mix.
The perfect quartet
for the perfect full-maker
and the perfect night of procrastination.
I assemble one mini-sandwich
turn up the T-Bone
and get set to endure a blissquake for the ages.
January 14, 2009 at 9:27 am
I’m not going to be put off by totally arbitrary new rules added at the last minute. I’ll buy my own pan.
Enter the three Witches.
1 WITCH. Thrice the brinded cat hath mew’d.
2 WITCH. Thrice and once, the hedge-pig whin’d.
3 WITCH. Harpier cries:—’tis time! ’tis time!
1 WITCH. Round about the caldron go;
In the poison’d entrails throw.—
Toad, that under cold stone,
Days and nights has thirty-one;
Swelter’d venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first i’ the charmed pot!
ALL. Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.
2 WITCH. Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the caldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt, and toe of frog,
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,
Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting,
Lizard’s leg, and owlet’s wing,—
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
ALL. Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.
3 WITCH. Scale of dragon; tooth of wolf;
Witches’ mummy; maw and gulf
Of the ravin’d salt-sea shark;
Root of hemlock digg’d i the dark;
Liver of blaspheming Jew;
Gall of goat, and slips of yew
Sliver’d in the moon’s eclipse;
Nose of Turk, and Tartar’s lips;
Finger of birth-strangled babe
Ditch-deliver’d by a drab,—
Make the gruel thick and slab:
Add thereto a tiger’s chaudron,
For the ingrediants of our caldron.
ALL. Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.
2 WITCH. Cool it with a baboon’s blood,
Then the charm is firm and good.
January 14, 2009 at 2:05 pm
I looove eggs. They do not love me so much. But, since I am at work and can not imagine up a beautiful food inspired poem, I will share with you my favorite egg dish. And although I love eggs at all and any time of the day, this is a breakfast dish. Or not.
You may want to adjust the measurements a tad as I do not normally measure ANYTHING – I just go with the flow when cooking….
Oh I Wish I Was an Omelet Made So Perfect (said in the same tune as “I wish I were an Oscar Mayer Weiner”)
5 large brown eggs
1/2 small purple onion diced
2 cloves of garlic diced
4 strips of beef (or turkey or pork) bacon cooked and crumbled
2 link of Carolina Pride Beef (or any other kind) Sausage – sliced then quartered and sauteed (sp?)
1/3 c Salsa of your choice
1 T Mexican Crema (or heavy cream)
dash of cayenne pepper (for the metabolism, of course)
2 dashes of Greek Seasoning
2 twists of the pepper grinder
1/2 c cheese (CHEDDAR makes it better)
Non-Stick Spray or butter or margarine to keep eggs from sticking to pan
(Already cooked and hot hash browns or tater tots just in case – you’ll see why)
Put pan on stove at medium heat and coat with chosen nonstick product.
Combine eggs and crema in bowl and beat till combined, light and fluffy.
Add garlic and onion and incorporate into egg mixture
Sprinkle in spices and stir a bit more till incorporated.
Pour eggs into pan
Sprinkle bacon across mixture
Sprinkle sausage across mixture
Sprinkle some (NOT ALL) cheese across mixture
Pour salsa across mixture
Put lid on pan and let cook until egg starts to firm on top.
Remove lid and proceed to (ATTEMPT TO) flip omelet over to resume cooking.
Sprinkle remaining (CHEDDAR) cheese onto half of omelet
Fold other half of omelet over on top of cheese
Serve and Enjoy
(When flipping said PERFECT omelet does not work. Break up into pieces like scrambled eggs. Add in tater tots or hash browns. Cook a bit longer so flavors meld together some. THEN serve and enjoy.)
January 14, 2009 at 2:47 pm
Hi Guys! I just wrote a post regarding Scanpan myself (and linked your post). How neat that you are having a giveaway! That will be one fortunate winner. I am really enjoying my cookware. Good luck to all the participants!
Lori Lynn
January 14, 2009 at 5:24 pm
Here’ mine:
Kiss me with mangoes still on your lips
embrace me with dewberries clinging
Woo me when winds of morning are birds
softly singing
Hold me while summer cherries turn red
upon the reddest vine
and sun-ripe scuppernongs turn bronze upon
a swaying vine
Caress me where wild strawberries crush beneath
our dancing feet
and pomegranates hang like love
intricately sweet.
:-)
January 15, 2009 at 1:00 pm
Happiness is…
Happiness is the sound of a knife
Slicing through an onion…
The smell of garlic
As it hits the pan…
Fragrant olive oil permeates the air.
Happiness is the taste of fresh basil
Plucked right from the ground…
The vivid green stark in contrast
To the pungent garlic clove
Happiness is the feeling of joy
When the dance of the ingredients
Becomes a beautiful symphony
Becomes my favorite dish….
Becomes my happiness…
That’s my best attempt at a poem. And my ode to pesto!
January 15, 2009 at 1:21 pm
Well I’ll give you both:
The Peanut Butter Man
There once was a man from New York
who ate peanut butter with a fork
When he got a banana
he found Nirvana
and went on the internet
to post it
And here’s my recipe for Peanut Butter and Banana Omelet: http://foodurl.info/6erd. You might think it’s a little strange but read the comments, people that made it love it!
January 15, 2009 at 3:17 pm
Peas, pickles, peppers and pork
These are my favorite, here on my fork
I eat them, I do, until there are no more
Then I wash and rinse my fork.
The worst poem ever! Yeah! I don’t ever claim to be a poet. I just cook.
January 16, 2009 at 8:49 am
Herbs cook quickly in a wok.
It’s not only Chinese — how fast
Thyme fries.
January 16, 2009 at 12:19 pm
Persimmons
Sliced persimmons on the counter
Left by you, both gift
And rebuke. You are already sleeping,
And the spoons have been washed
And put into separate drawers, shining
And reflecting each other.
It is nighttime and the kitchen
Is very white and very cold.
Sliced persimmons, neatly arranged,
And without pretense; a fruit
That does not let its thin red juice
Run from the firm flesh; self-contained,
The edges against each other
On the blue ceramic plate.
And I sit down in the wicker chair
And pick a slice with my fingers
And taste the persimmon. It sits
In my mouth and will not yield
Its sweetness to me unless I ask
Indelicately, with these teeth.
Even you, silent
As you have become, still want
Violence. My teeth breaking
The skin. And flavor rendered.
January 16, 2009 at 4:56 pm
Marshmallow, slightly toasty
Chocolate melting, creamy
Give me some more
And please give me a ScanPan too.
Thanks!
January 16, 2009 at 9:12 pm
How about a try at Haiku
Winter hunger grows
Soup stirs anticipation
I love comfort food
January 16, 2009 at 10:56 pm
A ScanPan I need
My pans are not so lovely
It’s beauty I want
Okay it’s not great but I tried.
January 17, 2009 at 5:55 pm
Cookie Diet
“Oh the COOKIE!” Cried John. “How delicious!
And nutritious and healthful and RIGHT!
Now for most they may seem somewhat naughty
But for ME they are naught but delight!
“You see,” he went on, “I have proof
Of their magic, salubrious ways
A psychic once told me my aura
Glows gold in a chocolate chip haze.
“Macadamia nut and white chocolate
Makes it sparkle like sun on the sea
And Girl Scout troop peanut butter patties
Has it shiver with uncontainable glee.
“Oatmeal raisin means purpley paisley
Snickerdoodles red cinnamon swirls
Gingerbread with black licorice buttons
Causes joyous cerulean curls.
“And with a cookie or two in my belly
I could exercise all night and day
With the power of sugar and flour
Losing thirty plus pounds is child’s play.
“So you might THINK that they just make me fatter,”
Said John as crumbs fell onto his shirt.
“But in FACT they’re my secret to weight loss
Contained in one multi-purpose dessert!”
January 19, 2009 at 3:48 am
A Food Poem as an entry to Write A Poem, Win A Pan
Crack that egg
Whip that white
The violence of food
Pound that meat
Skin that fish
The violence of food
Roast that apple
Pig, turkey and beef too
The violence of food
Fire that pan
Sear that lamb
The violence of food
Knives and forks
Cut and thrust
The violence of food
Boil that water
Drown coffee and tea
The violence of food
Who cleans up
…
The violence of food
January 19, 2009 at 9:39 am
A pome a day keeps the doctor away.
January 19, 2009 at 5:04 pm
I wrote this haiku a little while back.
Early Spring morning /
kitchen filled with golden light /
I am so lucky.
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