ISSUE EIGHT Summer 2009
We have an exclusive on the Woodcut Art of bestselling author Mark Kurlansky for his new translation of The Belly of Paris...
An interview with famous Parisian food blogger Clotilde Dusoulier of Chocolate & Zucchini (hear excerpts here)... Food maps by Louis Dunn.
Plus: a steak pureed in a blender, clandestine pomegranate feasting, square fish, ransacked trucks of rice, pie-baking to soothe the soul, a Basque heirloom farmer, a Chef Boyardee romance, remembering HoJo, chow chow adventures, and more including poetry by Elizabeth Swados and Cortney Davis plus 15 more poets; 33 writers and poets in all…and Italian artist Daniela Tordi’s ant pals scurry around the whole issue. Here’s one now!
Issue Eight excerpts...
From Urban Planning: Case Study #6 by Tim Hovarth
Write when you are starving. Write when you are sated. Write in the throes of eating—find a way, free up a hand between bites, intra-chew. If all else fails invent a new writing implement, half-pen half-fork (to think the spork anything other than a mild innovation shows a paucity of imagination), then sweep a bite into your mouth, pausing only briefly before nosediving right into the midst of your ongoing sentence, the one you left hanging between a dependent clause and an independent. Now, at last, the acts of eating and of writing have fused for you into a single, four-pronged gesture, as they did for me long ago.
From The Napkin and the Plate by James Sturz, "Appetizer"
Gabriella sat across from me on the train, spooning yogurt into her child’s mouth. A blueberry dollop fell to her knee, and she wiped it up with a finger. The baby and I looked at each other hungrily, wondering which one of us would win in a brawl.
From a poem by Katie Miller
Good things happen when I have
I can do anything, anything at all with
those golden slices of ambition in
I can sing,
I can fish,
I can repair an
Give me just one cornflake before
I’ll fix your car.
Get me a bowl of cornflakes and I’ll
show you how to fly.
From Coconut Milk by Paula W. Peterson
The coconut milk was smooth and creamy, with a faint yellowish hue to it, not bluish like cow’s milk. Later, when I had the right words, I would compare it to old ivory. I held the sweetness in my mouth before swallowing, not wanting to let it go and yet understanding that only by letting it go could I derive the most intense pleasure from it. (My mother, already inured to the joys and terrors of fulfillment, drank hers more quickly.) Down my throat it went, cool and warm at the same time, reaching my stomach and spreading everywhere, it seemed, to all my organs, nourishing my blood, drenching my cells with goodness.