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Eating Bread as Poetry
I recently learned that the original meaning of the word poem meant to make. It’s no wonder that when I make a meal with care, craft and inspiration that it can feel like crafting a poem. I don’t think that a great meal has the same lasting influence on civilization as a written masterpiece, but at times there is something in the act of cooking that feels poetic. It doesn’t matter if I‘ve made a simple repast for myself, dinner for me and my husband or a feast for a houseful of guests, the effect is still the same. We are momentarily transformed by the making, and then the eating of that delicious poem.
I have three, what I have called food poems to share. They are all about bread. The first one is about something my grandmother called sugar bread. When we ran out of coffee cake, she would take a slice of her simple homemade white bread, slather on a thin layer of butter and dust it with a spoonful of glorious white crystalline sugar, all the way to the edges. “Here darling”, she would say, enjoy this. I will make us a fresh coffee cake tomorrow.”
In the second food poem, I see my father standing at the counter in the kitchen. He was never very clever with his hands, but he met his fatherly obligation to our family and would always carve the roast beef for dinner. It wasn’t a special event. It was simply a weekday dinner for six. When he sliced off the well-done end piece, my Mother never hesitated to say, “Robert, save the end for me!” . The next slice would release the dark ruby au jus, which would pool up in the indentations at both ends of our specially designed meat platter. My Dad would look over at me and say “Sharon, can you get us a piece of bread “ . I would hand him a soft slice of white bread, he would dip it into the pool of the dark ruby au jus and offer me a piece of the juicy prize. “Don’t you just love gravy bread?” he would say. Of course I did.
My third food poem happens mostly late at night when I cannot sleep. I wander from my rumpled bed down the dark stairs to the kitchen. I don’t like to turn on the lights, so I won’t be jolted out of my semi-sleep state, so I only turn on one small light by the sink. I wonder what would comfort me back to sleep when I see a few slices of bread in a bag on the counter. I know now. I pop two slices into the toaster and wait knowing it will take longer since the toaster is starting to work from its cold place on the counter. I watch the filaments inside light up.9I only notice their beautiful color because it is mostly dark in the kitchen. POP. I am always surprised when the toast pops up like a child’s jack in the box. I spread the softened butter that is sitting on the counter on the toasted bread. It smells so plain and good. Three or four shakes from the cinnamon sugar shaker within reach complete the poem. I turn out the light. I eat in silence by light of the streetlamp barely illuminating the kitchen table. Crunch. Crunch Crunch, I eat it til there are only a few toast crumbs left on my porcelain plate painted with pink flowers along the rim. I am ready for sleep again.
Sharon Butler
Co-Founder