An ode to food

I was flipping through the most recent issue of Gravy today and came across this gem of a poem. I sent it to my sister, who correctly pointed out that I should post it on my blog! So, here it is.

by Sandra Beasley

My father will never enjoy
the heavy, sunrise sweetness
of a golden tomato dashed with oil,
layered in basil. As with spinach,
as with olives, he tastes only
the claustrophobia
of salt his Texan mother
unleashed from a can
a half-century ago, feeding
four children on a budget.
We talk little of this:
the foods our parents
cook to mush, pepper to ash,
flavors forever rendered to chore;
that this too was a form of love.
What I remember is how,
during a snowstorm that stranded
our schoolbus, I hiked
to my grandmother’s instead.
And she made me not
chicken soup from scratch,
or a braise of bacon and cabbage,
but rather a tray of tater-tots
straight from freezer to oven.
They goldened like July.
We ate them with our fingers
while we played Scrabble, waiting
until it was safe to take me home.



One thought on “An ode to food

  1. Pingback: Public Health Nutrition | Speaking of the South

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