A poem about lettuce

Out there in the world, iceberg lettuce has a bad rep: it’s pedestrian, boring, bland, boring, old-fashioned, with no nutritional value. But a big crunchy head of iceberg lettuce? There’s nothing wrong with that in my book. Those pale green, crunchy leaves of water, the perfect foil for a dab of dijon mustard and bit of cheddar cheese, the crispy part of a good burger. Plus, it’s a green vegetable. It’s got vitamins and all that. Man cannot live by iceberg lettuce alone, but it does add a crispy touch to other things. When I see a head of iceberg, I get inspired to make a taco salad, or my favorite Cobb, or Pasta House salads. Other people get inspired to make posters: KING PELICAN ICEBERG LETTUCE VINTAGE CRATE LABEL by dgpaulart Browse other Vintage Posters Cartoons: Plays: Even bikinis:   Iceberg lettuce inspired poet Joanie Mackowski to write this poem. Vegetable leviathans – I’ll never imagine my salad in the same way. Enjoy, in honor of National Poetry Month: Iceberg Lettuce by Joanie Mackowski What vegetable leviathan extends beneath the dinner table, an unseen, monstrous green that pulls the chair out from under our faith in appearances: see a mere tuft of leaf on the plate like a wing, but if it flies away, it undoubtedly will disturb the continental drift asleep under the salad plate, the hidden world we forget as we reach for the smaller fork— (and now, mouth full, don’t speak: politely chew your leaf of firmament that’s torn and tossed up in vinegar here as we’ll be tossed before its vast root maybe someday or any moment). Poetry (1999). Thank...
Dreaming of chickens

Dreaming of chickens

Last night I dreamed of chickens. There may have been a rooster in the bunch, but that level of detail in my dream is hazy. I remember they were enormously feathered in varying shades of rust and gold, and they were enormous, for chickens, almost four feet tall. I could pretty accurately gauge their height because, in my dream, they were tightrope-walking on the utility lines in front of the house. One carried a polka-dot umbrella. Here where I live, chickens are the new black. That may not be what you’d expect of a beach town, but it’s more and more common to walk through a residential neighborhood and see a chicken coop tucked into a side yard, or next to a driveway. The weekly paper carries notices of coop-building workshops, and both feed shops and nurseries alike offer up fowl advice along with organic feed and baby chicks. Growing up in the ’70’s in an urbanized suburbia, the only chicken I was exposed to, if it wasn’t deep-fried, was the tiny white plastic one from the Fisher Price Farm Set. This made sense to me, since eggs were white, too. I knew from visits to the Herpetarium at the St. Louis Zoo of the great multi-colored variety of snakes and lizards out there in the world, but that information didn’t translate to the chicken world. I was an adult before I visited the poultry exhibit at the county fair and learned that – just like snakes, and people, too – chickens come in all colors and shapes. As do their eggs. I started thinking about a coop of...
But what do you think happens when the salads lose their composure?

But what do you think happens when the salads lose their composure?

com-posed adj (1607): free from agitation : CALM; esp : SELF-POSESSED  syn see COOL A composed salad is, as I should have known but did not, the opposite of a tossed salad. I’d actually never given much thought as to whether the salads I make are composed or agitated, so I can see there’s quite a long way for me to go, culinarily speaking. In my recent salad research, then, I found lovely article by Jacques Pepin on the composed salad. It first appeared in the New York Times Magazine on August 4, 1991, a time Pepin had the foresight to refer to as “advent of a new American cuisine.” His grilled salmon and asparagus salad sounds particularly delicious, a perfect warm late spring meal. Hopefully Northern California’s upcoming commercial salmon season, the first in three years, will cooperate with a fresh, local ingredient so I can try it. And now, in honor of National Poetry Month, I found for you a poem about salad: Vegetables poem: Salad by Mortimer Collins O cool in the summer is salad, And warm in the winter is love; And a poet shall sing you a ballad Delicious thereon and thereof. A singer am I, if no sinner, My muse has a marvellous wing, And I willingly worship at dinner The sirens of Spring Take endive – like love it is bitter, Take beet – for like love it is red; Crisp leaf of the lettuce shall glitter, And cress from the rivulet’s bed, Anchovies, foam-born, like the lady Whose beauty has maddened this bard; And olives, from groves that are shady; And eggs – boil...
This Is Just To Say

This Is Just To Say

In honor of National Poetry Month I decided it would be appropriate to find and share what bards and poets and other wordsmiths have penned about food over the centuries. Here’s one by the American poet (and physician) William Carlos Williams I first encountered in a class many years ago. It has remained lodged in my mind fairly completely, unlike the concepts of logarithms and half-life: