Recipe Poems

A Conjuring by A Conjuring

Grandmother's Bread by Wilda Morris

Raspberry Mousse; or, Wherein I Unwittingly Assist My Ex-husband, Who, On Behalf of our Son, Prepares My Mother's Day Dessert by Joanie DiMartino

Deconstructing Chicken by Adina Cassal

Collage by Lisa Mase

Foraging by Carolyn Wells

The Baker by Janine Certo

A Poem That Wants to Call Itself a Recipe by Jax Peters Lowell

Corn Chowder by Penny Baert Zywusko

Kugel by Sharon Lask Munson

Muffin of the Morning by James B. Nicola

simplicity by Lois Baer Barr

Recipe for Disaster by Jonathan Pacic

Affogato by Lettie

Fall Harvest by Holly Mitchell

The Apple by Kerry Ruef

Brunswick Stew by Lyle Estill

Two Poems by Brenda Butka

Bread by Eva Szabo

Squash Blossoms by Allison Wilkins

Our Table by Joan Seliger Sidney

Recipe for Spaghetti all'Amatriciana by Georganne Harmon

The Agony of the Leaves by Gail Bellamy

Greens by Paulette Licitra

Strudel by Eva Szabo

The Almost Adulterer's Guide to Menu Planning by Michele Battiste

The Pie Series by David Colagiovanni, Melissa Haviland, and Becca J.R. Lachman

Midsummer's Night's Spaghetti with Saffron by Johannes Berchtold

A Cannibal's Suicide by Dean Kostos

From the Garden by Nancy Vienneau

orang slizez jell o shotz by Amy Stetzl

Phở bò Hà Nội by Kelly Morse

Cooking Class, Marrakesh by Georganne Harmon

Spread Triolet by Dana Stamps

The Things Kids Eat by Paulette Licitra

Maybe This Year by Esther Cohen

Braociole by Joseph Bathanti

Basque Cooking by Richard Hedderman

Two Poems by Adrienne Christian

Jailhouse Crack by Harlan Richards

Cinnamon Sticks by Wally Swist

Best of Both by Nancy Vienneau


by Eva Szabo

June 2014    

The summer sun rose
its rising
was that of the morning;
the village was already up
busy and stirring,
the room was an oven.

A giant oven
filled the corner, smoke rose
from its chimney and loose sides, stirring
in an upward flow: faint grey stripes rising
towards the darkened ceiling, up
and down again, the morning

was unbearable, a morning
of sweat drops; and the oven
was lit. The girl-mother, propped up
on pillows, was a dark pink rose
gradually rising
out of her dream as her baby was stirring.

Armies of black flies stirring,
the saturday morning
halfway up, the temperature rising,
the 15 by 18 room like an oven.
The baby whimpered as it rose,
the mother picked him up,

she opened up
the curtains, stirred
the flies away. The rose
lips engulfed her nipples, “Good morning
Baby,” whispered the mother, the oven
was heartless; the heat was rising.

She glimpsed the bread dough, rising
under the folded tablecloth, it grew up
to the trim, ready for the oven.
She had been stirring
flour, salt, sugar and butter this morning
before the light broke. On the clay rim rose

the yeast, the temperature still rising, the mother rose,
the dough in, the morning half-spent, up and up the heat
in the only room, the oven lit, a child asleep, not stirring.


  This is Eva Szabo, an architect by profession, a cook by inclination, a poet by the love of the written word, lives in Newton, MA. Her work has appeared in the Aurorean, and in the Newton Free Library publication Voices. She is currently working on a one-act play.