Poetic Material du Jour

To the Sparrow Nesting in my Back Porch Eaves

Two panes of frost to look through this morning.
A view of white winter light and last weeks snow,
And one warm brown spot,
Huddling in a nest of human trash.

You're sitting right in the spot where I meant to hang a suet block.

Maybe I'll build a sparrow trap instead.
Then I'll cut a circle from the river,
An icy final nest for you and
Your ugly family.
Or else I may warm my hands around your neck.

I want my suet to feed the song of the wren or the thrush,
Or the red head of the woodpecker or barn swallow.
You were never invited!
Where are your cousins with the white throats and gold crowns?

We hold each other's gaze through the frost.
Is your tail long enough to be a mourning dove?
Is your breast the grey buff of a Brewer's sparrow?
Are you the right one to eliminate or not?

I will wait till spring to remove your eggs from my porch.
Then I'll have better birds, or no birds at all.

Stop staring at me!
Do you blame me for missing
feeee odi odi zeeee zaaaa zooo and
Old Sam Peabody Peabody Peabody?

Home alone with Mark Bittman

So here we are again. Just the two of us, in this cramped, stifling, but spotless kitchen. We both know the routine. You, the master, I, the acolyte, pouring over your teachings and treatises, studying your every gesture, every syllable, every bite. My pillow: your big yellow book. My blanket: your big green book. My celestial home, my home page, my fount of all truths: your blog.

The steak browns. Not too soon with the soy sauce, you say, lest it steam. So true. I gasp with recognition, stunned to admit that once again you know how to guide me, to uplift my own nourishment. I feel your hand lightly on my wrist as we fluff the rice with a fork. Together. And the vegetable? I can sense you asking me. I wait. Inspiration will come. Not from me but through you, the vessel, the portal. Aha! I gasp yet again. I would never have thought of that on my own. Microwaved, simmered, or steamed broccoli it is!

It isn’t always good times, I understand that. I must learn, and it is a difficult path. Away! You say, with a sneering glance at my ancient spice cabinet. Out! You snarl, as you toss my boxed panko. Useless, comes your final mutter, and I dissolve in a puddle of tears, falling like so many dried parsley flakes.

I shall try again, better this time, I promise. Behold my freezer full of vegetable scraps and chicken bones, just waiting for a glorious weekend afternoon of stock making! Look, I no longer buy bread, but piles of yeast packets and flour, knowing that at some point you will teach me to bake my own! And I have used the occasion of my marriage to ask for a juicer and an ice cream maker, hoping to experience the “revelation” (page 8 of Big Yellow) of apple sorbet made with fresh-squeezed juice.

I consider with pleasure the beauties you have shown me. The Old-fashioned Baked Custard (p. 656) in that coy bain-marie. Those shape-shifting, pungent, enigmatic Crispy Pork Bits (p. 461). The wonders of fish sauce.

But oh, such treachery! Teacher, why have you forsaken me? Roast a chicken at 325°?? Make rice pudding with pre-cooked rice?? But how can it be, when Joy, and Julia, and Mother all counsel otherwise?

I eat in silent meditation, waiting for the answer, sensing your presence. There are many paths, I just know you would tell me, we all seek our own experience of Divine Carmelization. You too shall attain it in time. Patience, my child. And just trust the damn recipes.

Weekday Nights! Weekday Nights!
Were I with thee,
My Meals would be
A luxury!

Futile the herbs
To a chicken in port, --
Done with the noodles,
Done with the chard!

Kneading and Eating!
Ah! the ghee!
Might I but dine
To-night with Thee?

N.B. Really, this is satire! I don't intend to seek any contact with Mr. Bittman, and I respect his work. But judging by the comments posted on each and every Bittman NYT article, a lot of us seem to have developed our own personal relationship with him, whether he knows it or not!