The Bread of Kings by Teresa Lust

Fake Pies and Pig Thighs by Rachel Komich

An Essay in Which Pam Greer Oozes Out of Her Clothes by Richard LeBlond

On Pierogi(s) by Mark Lewandowski

Vegetexting by Jennifer Bal

The Benefits of Eating Too Much in the Desert by E. M. Eastick

A Question of Taste by Meredith Escudier

The Beauty of Pizza by Austin Rogers

Marmalade: The Melomeli of Modern America by Michael Pennell

Three Elizabeths, One George, Hot Cross Buns, and Hampstead Heath by Paula Panich

Duck by Eileen Shields

Food for Thought by Kathryn Jenkins

Playing Mass by Catherine Scherer

My Big Fat Orthodox Thanksgiving by Ruth Carmel

The Astrophysics of a Sandwich by Raychelle Heath

Tantric Chicken by Mara A. Cohen Marks

Full by Kelly Ferguson

Monkey Eve by Carolyn Phillips

Capon by Natasha Sajé

The Paella Perplex by Jeannette Ferrary

The Right to Eat by JT Torres

This Isn't Supposed to Happen in the Morning by Heather Hartley

Recipe for Winter by Khristopher Flack

Step One by Alexandria Marzano-Lesnevich

Flour Fool Meets Great Poet and Pie Instructor by Amy Halloran

Everett by Jason Bell

The Intrigue of Aaron Barthel by Kristy Leissle

Personal Sugar Defense Kit by Sari M. Boren

Kitchen Tirade by Eric LeMay

Eat Dessert First by Iris Graville

Parsley by Natasha Sajé

American Zen Breakfast by Dick Allen

This May Make You [Sic] by Paul Graham

Prisoner's Thai Noodles by Byron Case

Lavender Fields by Susan Goodwin

Ménage à Fongo by Kathryn Miles

All That She Could Make with Flour by Katherine Jameison

Weasel by John Gutekanst

Into the Deep Freeze by Jason Anthony

Defining Gluten by Ann Lightcap Bruno

The Text(ure) of Pleasure by Tara Deal

On the Perils of Food-Buying in a Foreign Land by Tony Eprile

Food for Thought

by Kathryn Jenkins

January 2015    

The After Eights and eggnog in my fridge seem out of place now. They scream holiday indulgence. Like lonely leftover presents, unclaimed under the tree, they don’t belong here anymore; they look wrong and it’s time they were gone. The plate of mince pies, snow-topped with icing sugar, no longer holds the same magic as last week. “Into the freezer then, you guys - see you later!” The untouched chocolate torte follows suit as I anticipate the thrill of a slice of Christmas in February. Ditto the pineapples: bought for Christmas Day when we ate so much they never got a look-in. There they are, still sitting on the counter with their shriveled spikes and orangey-brown scaly skins – both ripe to perfection but a week too late.

I’ve been feasting happily on holiday leftovers for several days and tonight’s dinner plate again plays host to an array of family favourites, each with its unique character. Because Christmas is a time for remembering and reminiscing I go back in my mind’s eye to my childhood Christmas dinner table and watch how the different generations gathered around it interact. And suddenly I’m struck by a funny thought: if all of us at that table were items of food, what would we be?

Some items are impeccably turned out like the extra stuffed pepper, its stemmed hat a perfect fit. It evokes memories of Gran, sitting upright in her starched apron, her features a bit wrinkled around the edges but regal and, like the pepper, full of surprises. The brussels sprouts, sitting cozily together, are everyone’s favourite old maiden aunts, gossiping and smelling slightly of cooked cabbage. A piece of quiche, drying out but still limp, is the pallid twenty-year old college boy who’s been told to sober up from last night’s festivities and is still much the worse for wear. The sozzled grandpa, aka the pickled onion, shares a risqué joke with the horseradish sauce, the sexy sister-in-law not even half his age; and one jolly uncle – now and again smoothing a ruffled family feather – is the gravy, making everything more palatable. And at the head of the table, in pride of place, sits the turkey (dad), plump in body and still hot from his morning in the kitchen. Mum, to his left, is the sage stuffing; the thing that holds it all together, the embodiment of Christmas cheer.

Only now in retrospect can I appreciate what we all, in our crinkly Christmas-cracker hats, brought to that table. Conversation between young and old was, I recall, lively and happy. And there was me, in the middle of it all, a quiet child but one sometimes needing to be the centre of attention – a plain trifle with a cherry on top.

And like those assorted characters at the Christmas dinner table long ago, the items on my plate today shouldn’t really go together either, but somehow they do. I take time to admire the hodgepodge before me. One bite leads to another, now savoury, now sweet, and before Iong I’m feeling good about the unusual smorgasbord I’ve set out for myself. When I’m finished I lean back, only to hear a mince pie calling my name, and I wonder if it’s not too late to grab one out of the freezer. It’ll go well with the eggnog.

  Kathryn Jenkins was born and raised in Yorkshire, England and moved to Calgary, Canada in 1989. For the past 11 years she’s lived in British Columbia's sunny Okanagan Valley. She only recently embarked on writing as a hobby and hopes to do more.


Photo used under Creative Commons.