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

Deconstructing Chicken

by Adina Cassal

September 2015    

My uncle hates chicken.
In World War II Poland, a Catholic
family took him in and saved him.
The family ate what they could find.
What they found was chicken.

Loud boots. Guns. Dark uniforms. Where's
Mommy? Shattered glass. Cold rain.
Screaming. Broken toys. Don't
say your name. Fires. Swastikas.
Daddy's gone. More soldiers. Quiet tears.
Taste of fear.

A meal of chicken, rice and green salad
Is served every Passover and Rosh Ha-Shana.
Each drumstick, breast and thigh
Crafted like a prayer, welcomed like a song.
Loved ones' faces framed by a candle light
That threads a silk rope to ancestors
And to generations still sleeping in chromosomes.

The only time my mother said
I'd make a good wife is when I said
I can make good chicken soup.

Lazy Sunday today;
I crave cold, grocery store
made fried wings, as real
as "The Love Boat" re-runs.
More bone than meat,
grease that sticks,
and starched "natural flavors" –
all soybean oil and salt.
Plastic box day.

Tomorrow, my husband will fix a chicken salad sandwich for lunch.
He will open a 5 oz. can, add a spoonful of mayo and
pickles from a jar behind everything in the fridge.
He will wolf it down while preparing
a lecture on international policy,
which will have no impact on
the morning blonde who still
waits at Constitution and 17th
with a long black skirt and
a cardboard sign that says:
Will work for food.


  Adina Cassal resides in the Washington, DC area. Before that, she lived in six countries and acquired a love of languages, music, cats and—of course—food.. She has also been published in The Commonline Journal. She works providing human services to people she deeply respects.