Tag Archives: food

Elephas.Cocoa.&Lincoln for H20

He’d stated, “3rd note to self, water for chocolate, nobody won the chocolate wars as all participants merely got cavities, therefore making love on a waterbed is approved by 9 out of 10 dentists. ”  And I laughed with a smile big and wide like thighs spread and remembered intimacies.  He was demanding and I never gave an inch.  It’s what we like best- challenges.  He excelled at Chess and I’d never learned to play but disintegrated homes and hardships taught kinky haired children stratagems to keep the village together and the larders full on a dime.  We broke bread from my oven and pretended we didn’t need each other.  I didn’t know his full story, but I could tell he’d also mastered pushing people away so they won’t leave when they’re gone.  Our eyes locked like daggers, piercing in intensity.  We made love like war and took no prisoners.  I used to think every venture had a destination.  I liked going on trips, getting to know the local flavor, and returning home.  He was packing my bag with a sundress and a machete.  Quests are unexpected adventures, and often the costs are not as easily alleviated as a cavity.  Al Green crooned, “How Can you Mend a Broken Heart” two years after the Gibb boys had nursed broken beats to the B-Side of a “Country Woman.”  Water! Water! Water! they all requested between takes.  The vocal chords, turns out, are just as vulnerable as the heart and when the two coincide someone or something has to go out. Everybody’s craving passion, to bite the bullet and ride the bull. Something forbidden or hidden because it takes two to tango. Even gringos get it and wish to let go of their anglo saxon disenchantment and for a love one can only express in a the kneading of dough… in needing both a parent’s love and the ability to love someone who doesn’t have to love you but can’t stop.  Mama taught me early to want what I couldn’t have or perhaps there was a more sinister plot afoot, that ever after wasn’t for us.  Lately, it’s looked like mine.

Part of walking down this path isn’t just about scenery, it’s also about balance.  Most people want to please everybody so they OCD down the middle of the road, but one day there comes a fork—> you have to choose. Only the magician’s assistant could be cut in two.  Then we were running from barking dogs and burning crosses because with the lights off, I didn’t know it was a fox and that x is an intersection; they’ve wanted me to hate myself for years and consistently try to convince me being a nigger lover is bad.  So I change the channel, but I won’t go into surfing yet.  It’s 1956 Alabama and Gordon Parks snaps a photo of a black gal dressed for church, sipping from ‘the colored only’ fountain because some trips one must praise Jesus and Jim Crow.  I’m thinking one of her descendents grew up in a brownstone on the south side of Chicago– not to be confused with the poison that Fantastic Mr. pushes in the streets of Porter County.  A lot of their grandparent migrated from Peaches, Sippy cups, and Volunteering states of mind with dreams of  prosperity on Lakeview.  In my vision, she’s rocking big gold hoops like her ancestors and Cross Colors like her peers.  She pops bubble gum and sings along to J.J. Fad’s S.U.P.E.R.sonic.  The fellas, post disco dug it when Gil said, “The Revolution will not be Televised.”  They told her Common liked rhymes and got his moniker from Common Sense.  See it doesn’t take a genius to figure out at the end of the day, in this fragile skin to understand this to be true: wherever you reside, whomever you adore, whatever lingo you verb, or however you worship— you get thirsty and you need to drink.  Even if you don’t believe in chocolate Jesus, there’s a need to be reborn and baptized in the water to wash the dirt and grit off.  This world is filthy and anything that stands out to long will tarnish and rush.  He felt he held the same passion for music that de la Garza had for food and Shakespearean love.  The church lady’s great grand daughter likes Common.  I want to tell this fictitious girl I do too.

I mention you and tell her I’m in love with a circus freak who takes care of caged, wounded animals who put on a show.  Though his training isn’t formal, he learned just enough to expound.  You think I deserve better than self destruction, and we argue about what there is to restore.  I may even mention how you like a girl who looks at the tops of trees because a friend once called them her personal ocean.  The birds become fish, swimming in and out of their waves.  That I’m, I mean she’s drawn to them and their symbolic freedom.   You like that about her and there are instances when you watch her fascinated that she forgets that they are prey and the two of you are one of their wolves.  I know you believe that because you’ve never really recognized I want to swim to glide not as a dove or dolphin, but a griffin because to heaven I was born.   And I guard divinity in this life because I’m mankind and history has revealed the continued search for the source is innate whether it be for elephants or chocolate, even souls time traveling in before and after.

Love and Lost.  This toothache won’t let me sleep, heard you got a poultice at the end of the tunnel for me.

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Pizza Dough & Life Lessons

I just had a memory as I late night snack.  There’s this great pizzeria in Portland, ME called Flatbread Company.  Their boxes said  “Food is Love.” It’s stuck with me ever since. All the great moments in my life have been across a kitchen table with friends, the intimacy of the moment thinking, “Yes, food is love.”  We were laughing, sharing anecdotes, passionately debating, and loving each moment as we drove our points home.  Music played in the background, the songs becoming numbers in the soundtrack of our lives… All those familiar faces who one doesn’t have to say anything to, but reveals everything; the smiles; and the sense of kinship.  A meal brings it together. It brings together families, allowing children to impress their parents and later lends a sense of security, “Yes I was loved.”  Siblings swap memories of kicking each other beneath the table and how mom hated elbows on it and the corny jokes that dad always told- even sneaking to feeding the family pet. Husbands and wives think of the moments of quiet comfort shared over a cup of coffee or those heated moments “before the kids.”  Lovers exchange intimate gazes over candlelight or in a restaurant and feel alone, just the two of them as the world becomes a mist that fades away to the background.  She watches his face of rapture as a flavorful bite of perfectly seasoned Chateaubriand explodes his taste buds.  He looks at her close her eyes in ecstasy as delicate bits of Tiramisu burst into mini pieces of coco richness onto her tongue.  In this, they become children of eros— filled with wanton thoughts and desire.

Where does love take over, at the tip of a spoon or fork? Religions and cultures worldwide view breaking bread as an honor.  It is a sacred act to share one’s meal with another. A Sukuma Afrikaan prayers involves sprinkling water and flour before meals to the four corners of the Earth:

Facing east: “For our ancestors of the distant past.”
Facing west: “For our recent living dead.”
Facing north: “For our living.”
Facing south: “For our yet unborn.”

I don’t know where love takes over but food transcends and as I learned years ago in a crowded eatery filled with strangers, hipsters, squares, youth, and elderly; different heritages, ethnics, and demographics biting into a slice of Coevolution pizza giggling as I dropped tomatoes with a thread of mozzarella on my chin-

Food is LOVE.”

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If we aren’t supposed to eat animals, why are they made of meat?

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Filed under $#!T& and Giggles

Hankering:

I see a Ham Torta Sandwich in my future….  Everything about it rocks and comes together to do a little Mexican hat dance in my mouth!  Yummy;)  The image below is Taco Mix’s Torta Cubana.  This monster of a torta contains refried beans, mayo, melted cheese, jalapeño peppers, lettuce and tomato, avocado, hot sauce, two slices of boiled ham, one split and grilled hot dog, some hand-carved shards of smoked ham, and, finally, a thin, lightly breaded Milanese-style beefsteak.

Yowzer!


It seems to really pack a punch with it’s assortment of meats.  I’m personally of the “if it isn’t broke, don’t fix it” school of idealogy.  However, I think I will experiment with having smoked ham, boiled ham, bacon, and chicken for texture.  I’ll let everyone know how it turns out, finger crossed for Mmmness.

Here’s a simplified recipe from a good friend’s mom!

INGREDIENTS:

bolillo bread

refried beans

ham

lettuce

tomato

onion

lime

avocado

fresco cheese

DIRECTIONS:
Slice bolillo buns in half and spread with lime.  Toast in skillet.  Spread thin layer of refried beans on bun halves and toast again.  Layer one half of bun with ham, lettuce, tomato, onion, avocado slices and fresco cheese.  Slap on top of bun and Ole’!!

*The best thing about this sandwich is it gives you the liberty

to play around and create something easy and delicious!*

Good Luck and Good Eating.

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Gluttony

Saturday Morning at the River Run
by Susan Thomas

They’re all here.
Everyone and everything
you want and don’t want
to see: neighbors, enemies, drunks,
farmers, lawyers, toast,
scrambled eggs and coffee,
the plumber who ruined
our lives for a year, and
used up all our savings.
Who you’re with is noted
blueberry apple pancakes
and who you’re not with, too.
Last night’s ad hoc couples
shuffle in half-dazed,
not sure of anything,
fresh fruit and yogurt
sprinkled with granola
some shy, some gloating.
I watch the tables,
casing the early bird scene
looking for an extra seat,
jalapeño beancakes
or someone who owes us a favor.
Lucky break! A scandal
distracts us from starvation.
country ham and gravy
The gorgeous boy
a friend once dreamed
she poked the eyes out of,
saunters in the door with
the girlfriend of his brother.
Everyone turns to look and
poached eggs with hollandaise
our place on line is noticed

by a woman who borrowed
my favorite book and never
gave it back. She waves us over,
eggs with grits and cheese sauce
enough cholesterol to share
catfish, homefries, bacon
with half a dozen people.
We dig in at once, letting
bygones wipe the plate clean
biscuits, sausage gravy
and she’s with a new boyfriend,
sourdough French toast
not the father of the baby
she gave birth to last year,
vegetable fritatta with
a side of green tomatoes
or the husband she had
when I lent her the book,
cornbread with peppers
crawfish etouffé
or her lover on the side
whose collection of Kafka
she kept when he dumped her.
Oh yes, she says, so kind of me
Andouille sausage omelette
to let her have the book.
It’s currently out of print
catfish jambalaya
and she passes me the bacon,
offers to lend it back as I
pass her the toast, absolve
her of all past sins, absolve
us all of everything in
this state of blessed gluttony.

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