Small hymns to sugar, salt, smoke, and comfort — the pantry as altar, the skillet as scripture, the porch as confession booth.
Sweet tea Oh how love thee Sweat upon my brow You're there to help Family and friends Your hospitality and sweetness knows no end Cicadas sing as I sit on porch Among jasmine scented air You're always in my hand Others might hurt me Break my heart But we're together forever The closest of lovers To those that don't Know you I smile and say Bless your heart
Two pieces of bread Nude before the world Heaps and spoonfuls of Dukes Two pieces of bread Wearing a wonderful dress A banana ripened to perfection Sliced lengthwise into floppy fruit Bundle them up in a regal gown Made of Dukes and bread Gross to some Comfort for me Passed down by my Mother Once my special treat Now my guilty cheat
I like pie baked, fried, or Frito Pumpkin, Sweet Potato Key Lime and Shoofly Apple and Cherry Oh hell How could I forget? The best of them all Pecan! And mother's crust Some say it's good Because it's made with Love But I know the real reason, LEAF LARD So gather your nuts like a squirrel I'll get the Karo Syrup Then I'll hit the hen house and steal some eggs Find some flour and lard We'll make a pecan pie And smile as we enjoy it With a glass of sweet tea
I am smiling as I reach in the fridge Past the milk and cheese, My fingers touch its cool glass jar. It's not normal, Greek, or Icelandic; Those are for others. No fat-free or skimmed, it's whole. I say "oui" as I pull it free. It's French! Whole milk! I'll resist the urge for two, And eat like the French. I struggle to remove the foil top; My hands are shaking with impatience. My spoon slips in. It's creamy, rich, and decadent. I smile as it lingers on my tongue. Now the only question is what to do With this cute little jar, no longer the star.
They say to eat like the French, So I do, like Jacques, Jean, and Marie, All three combined. I order my pizza by the pound, My apple pies are so tall they need warning lights. My sweet tea has more sugar Than a sugar factory. I eat my hot dogs by the foot.
Oh, bacon, Canadian, English, or American— I don't care! I fry you in my iron skillet Until you're crispy, Saving your holy, magic drippings. It doesn't matter, beans or burger, I reach for you. I am alone; I put you on bread with Duke's, By the pound. My pizza is naked without your crown. A simple breakfast of eggs and a bagel, Made a royal event when you arrive. You're the King of the fridge, Thick with hickory-smoked goodness. I hear tell some never touch you; For them I weep. I could write about you all-day Salads and so much more, But I hear you calling from the kitchen. By royal decree, I must fry some bacon!
The iron skillet is piping hot; The grease in it shimmers. And the cool batter is poured, Into a hot oven it goes. A land of heat and magic, Time passes and life goes on. And then, out of the oven, A land of fire and magic, Comes cornbread. Doesn't matter, Beans or chili, Butter it up and enjoy. But never discuss If there's sugar in it.
Oh, bagel, you are a lovely foreign thing, easier on me than buttermilk biscuits. You are bought, not made. I cheat and substitute you, don't tell. I like you buttered and toasted with that Yankee cream cheese. Please don't say a word, but I like you as a bun for eggs and country ham, while it's biscuits for Sundays and holidays. I keep my White Lily and lard put up the rest of the time and reach for you. Besides, you fail at bagels and gravy. Bless your heart
Chocolate, you're too good. You melt in my mouth into silky goodness, but your duality pains me. You're like an abusive lover I always long for. Your every gram seems to multiply. I know I should turn my back, but maybe... one more bite?
What hides in the depths Of the fridge? I wonder, as I look Past the salads and yogurt. I see it there— A beacon of despair, A slice of my mother's Chocolate cake, So moist and rich. I reach for it, And it vanishes— A fever dream Of my indulgence
Down in old Mexico where a genius On July 4, 1924 shook the world His name is Caesar Cardini and he made a salad To rule all others I eat it nearly everyday Romaine and Parmesan Islands of croutons upon A sea of Ceaser dressing Sometimes with chicken A touch of bacon now and then It lingers on the tongue and Fills my belly I awake and dream of lunch More likely a Ceaser salad than not Thank you Ceaser you make my day complete
I love my biscuits and country ham, Pecan pie makes my tongue slap my brains out. But I must confess a secret few know— if you tell, I'll call you a liar. But once upon a time, I lived for a while in the land of snow and ice. And there I found a meal fit for a king. No, not Chicago deep-dish, though that is nice. No, Italian beef is my vice, soaking wet, dipped, with sweet peppers. Hell, I even love gravy bread! So don't be surprised to find in my kitchen, Italian beef simmering on the stove, and giardiniera in the fridge. Now if only I could find the right bread!