Food for thought, cooking inpiration and poems

Pablo Neruda on olive oil
"Oil for
an olla’s
epiphany,
the partridge’s pedestal,
keys to mayonnaise heaven,
the bland and the savory,
over the lettuce leaf-"

From Esmeralda’s Santiago, When I was Puerto Rican
"That night she served asopao with a solid dark ball floating on top of each of our bowls. I bit into the firm center with my front teeth. It tasted like a hard boiled egg yolk mixed with liver. It coated the inside of my mouth with a dry, sticky paste, and the smell of feathers rose from the back of my throat into my nose. I had to scrape my teeth with my tongue several times before the flavor dissipated into the familiar bittersweet oregano and garlic. Mami watched me eat and smiled at me with her eyes. I smiled back. It was delicious, just like she said."

Antonio Galofre, aka Papi, my dad
"Entre mas sobraos tenga el sancocho, mas suculento el sabor.
The more left overs in the sancocho, the better its taste."

Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer, on bread
" There is something about rye bread which I am trying to phantom-something vaguely delicious, terrifying and liberating, something associated with first discoveries. I am thinking of another slice of sour rye bread which was connected with a still earlier period, when my little friend Stanley and I use to rifle the icebox. That was stolen bread and consequently even more marvelous to the palate than the bread which was given with love. But it was the act of eating the rye bread, the walking around with it and talking at the same time, that in the nature of the revelation occurred. It was like a state of grace, a state of complete ignorance, of self-abnegation."

Lord Byron
"A woman should never be seen eating and drinking,
unless it be lobster salad and champagne, the only
two feminine and becoming viands."

Harriet Van Horne
" Cooking is like love. It should be entered into with abandon, or not at all."

138 Starling Drive
I look out the window
while bowls
painted in bean sauce, soak
sudsy water rinses my hands
covered with chili and tomato sauce

The corral where one day
a horse
will take me round and round
is white with snow;
a cold Arctic wind blows
the chimes
outside; they clatter like shattered wine glasses
stepped over by a bride

That balmy breeze
once caressing more than my shoulders
and the lizard that kept me company
while I made thoughts into poems
fades
as I scrub chili off
the plates

The black and red in his flannel
shirt, opened to my kiss
and the snow covered
Spanish Peaks

welcome and remind me
where I am

And why I came

Tortillas
Have you tasted
Conchita’s tortillas,
soft and moist as
the flesh unfolding
between her breasts?

She nips apiece from
a clump of dough
and massages it into a ball.
The hands that held me close
before the neighbor’s rooster
sang this dawn,
flattens the floury paste
until it is round and full
like a Jalisco moon.

On a scalding skillet,
she sears the masa.
The sweet smell of corn,
rich with memories,
dances its way into the air,
while through opened windows
mariachis serenade.

Conchita
Stacks the warm tortillas on
a ceramic plate and brings
them to a table where I
hungrily wait.
I spread fresh butter on
one and dunk it in
steaming cocoa;
its texture, soft and resisting
like her lips, give in to my teeth.

She sways away
to the kitchen
leaving me with her melodious
laughter and dripping butter
down my chin.

Jambalaya You
Your loving came expected
like every Fat Tuesday
wide and fecund
like the Mississippi
Your hands trailed through my soil

Dampened by your muddy water.

This body, this earth
bountiful with crabs, shrimp, oysters &
crawfish-
A stew of wealth

I will cook you, dear city
feast with your progeny until they
consume me
or I devour myself,

Let me love
You

until the end
Until we peel off the green, yellow
and purple flags
off the balconies in Charles Street

Say farewell to meat
Eat a jambalaya of crawfish

Je t’aine
Noveaux Orleans

Paella
Valencia grains
fat and sticky swell up
at the touch of
the sherry and the slow fire from the
stove

Translucent worlds of onion
revolve in the viscous rice as
the alchemist stirs it with
his wooden wand

From an oak Moorish box
he picks on
threads of
saffron and tints a cup
of water. The annatto colored
liquid transforms
the Valencia into another hue
of gold

In between his offerings of Portuguese
capers and paint brush strokes
of red bell peppers,
he sinks the bountiful Mediterranean
into the voluptuous
tawny backdrop

He spots me across the
kitchen and the spicy smell of
paella crosses the space
our bodies
share

Claudia's Salsa Available at the Following Local Stores:
Town & Country • Farmer's Market (Bozeman Fairgrounds & The Emerson Winter Market)
Field Day • Big Sky Local Food • Orders by Phone

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