food poem

Hello, Cutie.

Put on your best bib, grab a spoon, and dig into some homemade tapioca pudding. 🙂

I LIKE TAPIOCA
by Bill Batcher

I like even the word "tapioca."
It sounds like the name of a Latin dance,
the beat of the Samba underscoring
the ritual movements of some Amazonian tribe.
"Come, let's do the Tapioca."

Or it could be the local indigenous name
of a tributary of the congo
the newsman Stanley hoped would
bring him closer to Dr. Livingstone.
"This is the Tapioca, I presume."

Or even a tropical insect,
whose bite transmits a lethal disease,
while its genes contain the secret
to conquering the riddle of aging.
"Tapioca face cream, $26.59 a jar."

Yet tapioca is more than these:
A confection that puts a spring
in my step, takes my spirit
to worlds unknown, and renews my youth,
when I loved those gelatinous pearls --
even when told they were frog eyes -- the bigger, the better.

Where is it from? There's the mystery,
unlike the rice pudding they try to pawn off
on me instead.

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We’ve been enjoying some absolutely gorgeous Autumn weather here in Virginia. The alphabet soup kitchen helpers and I are especially excited about all the different apples available at the farm market.

About 25 varieties are grown here — I commonly see Rome, Winesap, York, Golden Delicious and Red Delicious. I miss the apple tree we had at our old house; I think they were Staymans. Made many an apple pie and crisp with them. Whenever I think about that tree, I also miss our neighbors. During the Spring when it was full of blossoms, dreamy-eyed Derrick would wander over to the tree just to take in the scent, and of course it was always lovely to have a fragrant carpet of petals on the grass.

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