“Sometimes, love looks like small things.” ~ Tracy K. Smith
I’m a big fan of James Crews’s poetry anthologies and often dip into them whenever I need a calming moment of reflection or a fresh dose of inspiration.
Both poets pay homage to their Italian grandmothers, recalling childhood memories that continue to sustain and nourish.
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“Grandma’s Kitchen” by Lisa Pastille.
THE LESSON by Paola Bruni
On Sundays, Grandmother alight on the altar of making and I, only old enough to kneel on a wooden chair beside her, watched. From the cupboard, she unearthed a dusky pastry board, flour formed into a heaping crater, the center hollowed. Eggs, white as doves. Salt. Cup of milk, fragrant and simple. No spatula. No bowl or mixer. Just a pastry board and Grandmother's naked, calcified fingers proclaiming each ingredient into the next. She murmured into the composition until the dough fattened, perspired, grew under her ravenous eye. A rolling pin to create a still, quiet surface. Then, the point of a sharp knife chiseling flags of wide golden noodles. For days, the fettuccini draped from wooden clothing racks in her bedroom under the scrutiny of Jesus and his Mother. Mornings, I slipped into Grandmother's bed, dreamt about eating noodles swathed in butter and the sauce of a hundred ripe tomatoes roasted on the fire.
~ from The Wonder of Small Things: Poems of Peace and Renewal, edited by James Crews (Storey Publishing, 2023).
“The scent of cinnamon is like a hug for your senses, wrapping you in comfort and nostalgia.” – Unknown
photo by Brent Hofacker.
What could be more enticing than the sweet spicy aroma of cinnamon wafting from the kitchen? It carries the promise of something scrumptious in the oven: apple pie? gingerbread? snickerdoodles, bread pudding?
Mmmmmmmm! Warm and woodsy cinnamon feels cozy and comforting. It speaks of Saturday morning cinnamon toast, late summer peach cobblers, hot mulled cider, nutty streusels and autumn’s molasses cookies. It’s snappy cinnamon tea and hot chocolate with whipped cream. Moreover, cinnamon is the smell of Christmas.
Good aromas transcend time and space by not only stimulating the appetite, but conjuring up satisfying, sensory-rich food memories. We thank Nebraska poet Judy Lorenzen for permission to share her poignant poem and for commenting on what inspired it.
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“Cinnamon Roll” by Justin Clayton
CINNAMON by Judy Lorenzen
with a line from William Butler Yeats
Where goes the memory wandering but to the house of my childhood to smell the sweet aroma of Mother's baking goods. Where her kneading hands are covered in butter or in flour where the crimson spice's fragrance hangs in the air for hours. And there is nothing better than in her presence here, to see her face, feel her embrace, I feel the welling tear. The loaves of bread and rolls dark red, were love that served the child, where time is gone and memory lives my mind rests for a while. I didn't know how fast time passed, holding her cinnamon-scented hand, For the world's more full of weeping than I could understand.
Cinnamon-Streusel Coffee Cake via King Arthur Flour.
NOTE FROM JUDY:
“I bought a cinnamon-scented candle the other day. After I opened the lid to take in the perfume, my mind went straight back to my childhood. My mother was such a wonderful mother, a natural teacher who was always teaching my six sisters and me about the flowers, night skies, stars, constellations, the birds and their songs—everything.
She taught my sisters and me to read before we went to school, using the King James Bible. She had memorized a lot of poetry in her childhood, and sometimes, these long, beautiful poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, W. B. Yeats, Robert Frost or John Neihardt, among others, would come pouring out of her. I’d watch her face glow as she quoted them and listen to the music in the poetry. I was mesmerized by her and all of her abilities—we all were. We just never stopped learning from that wonderful woman.
l to r: Jamey, Joy, Mom, Judy, Jonna & Jacki (Jo & Jill not pictured).
Because there were seven of us girls, she baked a lot, and we all loved those days. The cinnamon smell lingered around the house all day. When I walked home from Engleman Elementary on baking days, I could smell the cinnamon on the winds as I got closer to home, and I knew what was waiting inside those doors. Such sweet memories!
I write memoir poetry, and many times, a smell, a song, or a thought triggers a poem. The cinnamon candle made me think about how much I miss my mother and her sweetness, and I remembered that line from Yeats’s poem ‘The Stolen Child’ that I loved so much. I thought about how true it was that I didn’t understand then that the world was so full of weeping. I knew I had to end my poem with that line—she loved that poem.”
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Judy Lorenzen is a poet and writer who holds an MA in Creative Writing from the University of Nebraska at Kearney and a PhD in Rhetoric and Composition from the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Her work appears in journals, anthologies, newspapers, magazines, and on calendars and websites.
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Lovely and talented Irene Latham is hosting the Roundup at Live Your Poem.Be sure to check out the full menu of poetic goodness being served up around the blogosphere this week. Enjoy your weekend!
If Peeps are in the store, can Spring be far behind? My hand, reverent, traces the crackle of cellophane That shelters conjoined confections. Soft shapes in bright colors— Yellow, pink, and this year, blue— (Yellow is the best, anyone could tell you.) Colors of spring more true than the purple crocus Frozen in its bulb under the snowbank at the end of the drive.
My hand plucks them like seed packets. One, two, three four five. Odd numbers are best—no one notices If you eat the odd one before you get home.
The register beeps the red total. The clerk says leave them out overnight In the open, without cellophane; That's the best way, she smiles. I smile back; who am I to tell her she's wrong? Naked Peeps are soon as hard and dry as sun-baked dirt At the end of August.
My five small packs nestle in the sack Like boxes of tulips minus the stems. My thumb punches through the cellophane of the one on top— Better than any groundhog's shadow, More pure than the first robin's song, A promise of pollen shakes loose with sugar spilled on my lap. I pull the yellow blossoms apart, And eat Spring.
The thing about Peeps is that you either love ’em or hate ’em. Kind of like candy corn at Halloween, Peeps are undoubtedly divisive.
Made of sugar, corn syrup, gelatin, food coloring, carnauba wax and a preservative, Peeps aren’t exactly the healthiest treat. Yet for many of us, it’s all about the nostalgia — memories of childhood Easter baskets, debating over which color or shape is best, whether to eat them fresh or stale.
What can I say? I’ve always liked marshmallow: chocolate covered marshmallow bunnies, mini mallows in cocoa, s’mores. ‘Nuff (or should I say ‘fluff’) said. 😀
“L.L. Peep” by the Vogt Family.
Yes, eating straight sugar is bad, but once a year, I don’t mind throwing caution to the wind. Note I said “once a year,” because those orange Halloween pumpkin Peeps or green Christmas tree ones are just wrong. Everyone knows Halloween = chocolate, and Christmas = cookies. Right? Some things, after all, are sacred.
“Brussels sprouts are misunderstood — probably because most people don’t know how to cook them properly.” ~ Todd English
M.T. Ross (Mother Earth’s Children: The Frolics of the Fruits and Vegetables, 1914).
Love ‘em or hate ‘em? Only a small majority of people feel so-so about these spunky green orbs, sometimes fondly referred to as baby cabbages (so cute!).
Perhaps no other vegetable elicits such a strong reaction in kids as well as adults. Despite all the debate, Brussels sprouts continue to inspire artists and poets.
Did you like them when you were little? Does this poem sound like you?
I HATE BRUSSELS SPROUTS!
by Cynthia C. Naspinski
I know that stink! I have no doubts
That Mom has cooked up some Brussels sprouts.
Of all the things that I despise,
The Brussels sprout would take first prize.
I've blocked my nose and tried to swallow,
Guzzled lots of milk to follow,
But I can tell you nothing works
'Cause in my mouth the taste still lurks.
Once I slipped one in my pocket,
But after dinner I forgot it.
Next day I shoved my hand in there
And gave myself a nasty scare.
In Mom's pot plant I used to hide
A sprout or two, but then IT DIED!
And now my sister's learned to count,
I can't add to her sprout amount.
My dog won't even help me out.
He will not eat a Brussels sprout.
He'll lick his butt, eat possum poop,
But to eat sprouts he will not stoop.
Maybe it is just as well
Because his farts already smell.
He does not need a Brussels sprout
to turbocharge what's coming out!
Please Mom, can we work out a deal
That gets me out of this here meal?
I'd clear the table, do the dishes,
Be your genie, grant you wishes.
I'd clean my room a little later
And feed the dog (that little traitor!).
I'd pull weeds till my hands blister,
I'd even play nice with my sister.
But Mom, it would be best all around
If other veggies could be found,
So we could all just go without
The gross, revolting Brussels sprout!
~ as published by Family Friend Poems (2020).
Jama's Alphabet Soup 