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Recipe For Love Poem - Yahoo Recipe Search
Food52I am an oncologist, and a few years back I had a man coming to the end of life, and instead of hospice he said "I have to go home to say thank you and good bye" to all those who taught him life. He was weak, and in no shape to travel, but made the trip. He mentioned an aunt and the browned butter peach tarts she made for him -"something my mother never did" . He shared this with a smile, and his gracious end in gratitude was unforgettable, and something i hope to emulate. I wrote the poem to remember him, and to remember the "other mothers" who spoiled us. The recipe depends on a Genius recipe:Paule Caillat's Brown Butter Tart Crust That was the bridge this amateur chef needed to get an authentic pastry. I applied the fundamental principle that "a tart should be tart" and added kiwi and blueberries to the peaches. I am quite certain these were not the tarts Auntie Maria made, but the combination works. The Other Mother’s Day Before I die too young to die* I must go back To the country of my birth And thank all those who taught me life And the first I’ll thank is Auntie Maria The aunt who made me tarts A thing my mother never did I could smell them cooking The peach and lemon And nutty browned butter I knew they were coming An hour or so before the first bite Early in the morning I saw the market basket Filled with peaches And a lemon And the honey jar was out There was a secret ingredient She added with her back turned Next a spoon of uncooked filling Just for me Her trademark, smiling scold: “Leave some for the tarts” Then all through the house And outside you knew Those tarts were coming People would drift by Just to say hello How long have you been here? They would ask me Asking me about mother And a few brave souls Would ask about dad As they ran out of questions. Even as a child a part of me Recognized their sinister plot - They were just pretending To care about me Stalling for a bite And so I cut my answers short For I wanted all the tarts But Auntie was generous And as they gathered She would explain to the neighbors That her father, my grandpa Carlos A man I only met through stories Had come back through me A spitting image “It skips a generation” They would say in response - Every year I heard The same antiphon: Spitting image It skips a generation As they bit into my tarts Much later, years later I understood this more When my aunt wrote out the family recipe And explained her father Carlos Would make the family tarts A recipe from his mother Passed along in mirth to me The secret ingredient, Finally revealed, was Love And a pinch of cardamom By then my mother had explained More than once Auntie Maria was the favorite “She was always his favorite” She said with an accepting smile Years in the making That was just a part of life back then A fact to be faced As I came to understand My mother always felt Her father made the tarts for Maria And gave some to her These days Such favorites are shamed In how-to parent books And pies must be cut In equal portion If there are five children Your love should be divided Five equal ways And just as those neighbors Pretended to care about me To stall for tarts Auntie loved her father And missed her father so much That every tart she handed to me She was handing to him For I was her favorite * four weeks before his premature death, a patient traveled back to the country of his birth “to thank them and say goodbye” Bill McLaughlin MDFood52Whenever I trim a fresh artichoke, my thoughts always drift to Pablo Neruda’s poem, "Ode to the Artichoke". And every time I cannot help but smile that such a deliciously wonderful poem was dedicated to a vegetable that looks so unwelcoming. “Dressed as a warrior, burnished like a pomegranate, proud…” writes Neruda. Indeed, this spiky-green veggie with its formidable pointy leaves looks as intimidating as a warrior in full garb! With a little courage, though, and a bit of skill, you can unearth its delectable treasure — “scale by scale we undress its delight and we eat the peaceful flesh of its green heart.” Thus ends the life of the artichoke, and Neruda’s poem. I must confess that I’ve trimmed many an artichoke in my day, and the task, if not easy, has become at least comfortable. So I’ve made a video of today’s recipe showing every step of the process. And if you’ve never trimmed a fresh artichoke before I hope it will inspire you to give it a try! Artichokes are in season twice a year: in the spring (March through May) and again in the fall. Although you can find them in grocery stores almost any time of the year, they are the freshest and therefore the most flavorful during peak season. Since I’m such a fan of artichokes, I’ve created many recipes with them. But I especially love making artichoke risotto. The creaminess of the rice is a perfect contrast to the slightly crunchy texture of the artichoke heart. Once the risotto is done, I stir in a light lemon-herb pesto, and… it’s nothing short of a flavor bomb! One thing’s for sure: I could eat this risotto every day until artichoke season is over…Food52I love mango. And as we are celebrating a LOVE Holiday, I chose this recipe from Allende’s book to reinterpret! As she also suggests, for love dates, to read love poems or stories or books, I selected for you my fave poem from her book, to read to your lover on V day: Let us live, my Lesbia, and love. As for all the rumors of those stern old men, Let us value them at a mere penny. Suns may set and yet rise again, but Us, with our brief light, can set but once. The night which falls is one never-ending sleep. Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred. Then, another thousand, and a second hundred. Then, yet another thousand, and a hundred. Then, when we have counted up many thousands, Let us shake the abacus,so that no one may know the number, And become jealous when they see How many kisses we have shared. (Catullus, verses to Lesbia) Ok, let’s go back to the kitchen… This sauce is perfect for red meat, vegetables, lentils or chickpeas!
