Food Poem Fridays: Naomi Shihab Nye's RED BROCADE

Red Brocade

by Naomi Shihab Nye

The Arabs used to say,

When a stranger appears at your door,

feed him for three days

before asking who he is,

where he’s come from,

where he’s headed.

That way, he’ll have strength

enough to answer.

Or, by then you’ll be

such good friends

you don’t care.

Let’s go back to that.

Rice? Pine Nuts?

Here, take the red brocade pillow.

My child will serve water

to your horse.

No, I was not busy when you came!

I was not preparing to be busy.

That’s the armor everyone put on

to pretend they had a purpose

in the world.

I refuse to be claimed.

Your plate is waiting.

We will snip fresh mint

into your tea.

Food Poem Fridays: Michael Heffernan's PUTTANESCA

Puttanesca by Michael Heffernan

Before I gave up wondering why everything
was a lot of nothing worth losing or getting back,
I took out a jar of olives, a bottle of capers,
a container of leftover tomato sauce with onions,
put a generous portion of each in olive oil
just hot enough but not too hot,
along with some minced garlic and a whole can of anchovies,
until the mixture smelled like a streetwalker's sweat,
then emptied it onto a half pound of penne, beautifully al dente,
under a heap of grated pecorino romano
in a wide bowl sprinkled with fresh chopped parsley.
If you had been there, I would have given you half,
and asked you whether its heavenly bitterness
made you remember anything you had once loved.

Funeral Food

My mother's father passed away on April 6. He was an incredibly dear and beloved person in our family. Perenially hip, I think he had a pair of jeans before my dad. He used to call me R2D2 and once said, underwhelmingly, after seeing "Eyes Wide Shut," "I liked the other Kubricks better."

He and his father were both way ahead of their time, pursuing industry in India at a time when statist, illiberal ideas held in the governance of the economy.

Nana loved eating, and had a very distinguishing palate. He used to make his own throat-soothing tea, which had at least 12 different ingredients. He loved meat but married my grandmother, and meat's never passed her lips; so he would buy and clean it himself, at a time when most men did not participate in cooking. He knew a lot about ayurvedic considerations around diet: if I ate too much mango, would warn me against its ability to cause acne if eaten in excess; if I ate too much honey, he would say to be careful as it raises the body temperature.

He was the gentlest, lovingest person; and we will all miss him hugely.

Nana got his start in industry selling mung dal (lentils); when he was cremated, his ashes were placed atop a sack of mung dal during the interim period before they were scattered in both the Cauvery River and the Ganges.

Whenever there is a major life event - marriage or funeral, for example - Sindhis make Sindhi curry for guests coming for some of the rites. It is a delicious, strained tuvar dal and tamarind-based curry wth green seeded vegetables like bhindi (okra) and singhi (drumstick) or green beans. Traditionally, it's poured over hot rice and deep fried, tiny balls of chickpea flour soaked in sugar syrup (boondhi).

For 12 days after Nana's funeral, we fed sacred cows his favorite foods.

Food Poem Fridays: Barbara Crooker's ODE TO CHOCOLATE

Ode to Chocolate by Barbara Crooker

I hate milk chocolate, don't want clouds
of cream diluting the dark night sky,
don't want pralines or raisins, rubble
in this smooth plateau. I like my coffee
black, my beer from Germany, wine
from Burgundy, the darker, the better.
I like my heroes complicated and brooding,
James Dean in oiled leather, leaning
on a motorcycle. You know the color.

Oh, chocolate! From the spice bazaars
of Africa, hulled in mills, beaten,
pressed in bars. The cold slab of a cave's
interior, when all the stars
have gone to sleep.

Chocolate strolls up to the microphone
and plays jazz at midnight, the low slow
notes of a bass clarinet. Chocolate saunters
down the runway, slouches in quaint
boutiques; its style is je ne sais quoi.
Chocolate stays up late and gambles,
likes roulette. Always bets
on the noir.