this is my twelve day. this is my seven. this is my feeling like i can't go on any longer. this is my porcupine poking the sky. this is all there is that's left in the pie, and this, well, this is what you get when you combine the one with the other but the one won't work and the other won't cooperate. this is the feeling that i wake up with every bonecold morning and this is the meaning of the book in your eye that i can't wrap my head around and this is this and that is that and these are the things —the thin things—that we leave to our children and hope beyond hope that they will match up in a way that makes more sense than we can make, in a way that makes more sense than we have or have ever had, it seems, and the fire is under the pot and the sky is in the pot and the fire is in the sky and it is boiling. it is not rolling yet but it still is not still and it still is not anything that we can call our own and it is just in this way, the way in which the trouble moves in the liquid from the bottom up the outside and down the inside to the bottom again and again and again until it’s all gone, until the pot is a hot dry mouth screaming at the sky and it cracks and bursts in the face of the kitchen and the kitchen will never sleep again. the kitchen will always be open. the leaves will blow right in through the open door and they will roast themselves slowly—so slowly—right there on the open floor.
(for Alice and Belinda....finally) The bread becomes the baker The baker does not exist until bread-making begins. Fingers are ropes. Hands, lumps of mute flesh until they touch the flour, until they form the loaves, until they roll the dough around and around, turning the planet. The sun does not rise until the oven’s fire rubs the last of the rest from the eyes of the yeast and wakes it fully from its bed within the warmth, until the nascent crumb stretches, yawns and grows upon the crest of the day when the baker becomes the bread and again ceases to exist.
(NaPoWriMo, Day 8) I awake to the sound of more sirens— firetruck and ambulance this time—the weather has calmed, the city has not--and visions of spinach artichoke dip spreading on multi-grain bread with round, browned and caramelized slices of oven dried tomato-- red on green and green and white on brown.
This week’s episode:
The simple-ish one is a smoked side of salmon. The rest are from a while back…five years ago? Decorated poached salmon. I guess it’s what you would get if a fish-monger, a produce merchant and a florist had a devil-love-child.
I haven’t done anything quite that schmancy in quite a while. It is not just like riding a bike. I’m afraid I’ve lost most of my garnishing chops.