Mycelium by Wilda Morris

At Grandmother's Table circa 1948 by Elizabeth Langemak

Taste by Patridge Boswell

Lullaby by Edward Mayes

Shakespeare by James B. Nicola

Summer Night by Diane Giardi

100 Words on My Father with a Big Fish by Jan Presley

Why go to heaven yet by Margo Davis

Roll Over Beethoven by Jonathan Pacic

limnophila aromatica by Susan Soriano

Bantams by Heather Bourbeau

Salt by Carolyn Wells

It Won't Taste the Same by Michelle Morouse

The Fallacy of Comparisons by Paul Lieber

Ode to End of Summer by Wally Swist

408 Dates with Maureen by Gail Bellamy

Taste Testing by Sarah Fawn Montgomery

A Meditation on Working as a Produce Clerk by Ross Stager

Le Fouquet by Elisa Albo

Two Poems by Sarah Paley

Transubstantiation by Susan O'Dell Underwood

Two Poems by Sharon Abra Hanen

Strawberries by Vincent Peloso

Chin Chin by Jessica M. Brophy

Nonpareil by Lois Rosen

Creating Foodie Monsters by Elisa Albo

Foods I Love by Meredith Drake

Three Poems by Terence Winch

Soufflé by Piscilla Atkins

Three Poems by Gail Peck

Under the Kitchen Floor by Bruce Cohen

Spring Peas Come to the Stores by Hannah Fischer

Two Poems by Grace Bauer

Kettle by Susan Kelly-DeWitt

Going to Get Swedish by Carol Berg

Potluck on Sulphur Creek by Brenda Butka

My Mother's Handwriting by Julia Wendell

Radish by Lauren Henley

The Way of the Buddha by Nadia Ibrashi

Famine Bread by Karen Holmberg

Leer Comida by Andrés Catalán

Cooking Show by Gary Mesick

Museum of Butter by Carol Jenkins

Two Poems by Crystal Simone Smith

Yardbird Suite by John Dufresne

Creating Foodie Monsters

by Elisa Albo

November 2013    

Gabriela loves salmon. She’s five. Sofia eats caper olives and marinated gherkins off a tapas platter at a Spanish restaurant. She’s two. When I mentioned she’d be having pizza on Fridays at nursery school, she asked, “With proscuitto?” They’d devour a can of anchovy-stuffed olives if I let them, polish off a block of reggiano with their pasta. In the midst of preparing dinner, I’ll kiss Gabriela good night. “I smell chorizo. Can I have a piece? Promise I’ll go to sleep.” For her part, Sofia can notice a long ago melted disk of 70% Venezuelan cacao on my tongue. “Good night, Sofia. I love you.” “Can I have some chocolate too, Mommy?” My girls like mac ‘n cheese, so I make a creamy Cook’s Country version Gabriela is so crazy about she refuses the Kraft concoction at preschool. My daughters have never eaten a McDonald’s hamburger or a so-called chicken nugget, preferring mojo marinated grilled filets, Mommy’s smashed potatoes, fresh buttered green beans. Weekend mornings, multi-grain chocolate chip pancakes with warm maple syrup beat out cartoons. “No corporate food!” their father pronounces, happily squeezing tomatoes in both hands for a garlic infused sauce, red peppers roasting in the oven, ciabatta warming—soft, airy, crunchy. We slice it, drizzle olive oil, sprinkle salt, settle on sofas to eat pasta, drink wine, watch a movie. Gabriela gets out of bed, shuffles in, spies and circles the bread plate. “Can I have a piece?” “Go back to bed.” “Is that olive oil? Please?” “Then go to bed,” and she does, until breakfast.

  Elisa Albo , the author of Passage to America, recently completed a collection of food poems, To Sweeten the Flesh. Her poems have appeared in Alimentum, Bomb, Gulf Stream, InterLitQ, MiPoesias, Tigertail: A South Florida Annual, and Irrepressible Appetites, among others. She teaches English at Broward College and lives with her husband and daughters in Ft. Lauderdale, FL.

Photo used under Creative Commons.