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

My Mother’s Handwriting

by Julia Wendell

December 2012    

Individual as DNA,
it spoke to me from fridge notes, Christmas tags,
report cards that went back to school
with her hurried scrawl at the bottom.

Even now, the ache when I find her,
in half-cursive, half-print,
as unique as her voice once was
flitting, sonorous, always youthful,

or her arthritic hand reaching for another tumbler
of vodka, then stubbing out a menthol
on her dinner plate.

But nowhere more present
than in her stash of recipe cards marked
Vegetables and Salads, Meat and Poultry,
as if she’d just penned the headings yesterday.

I scan the green cardboard box
for something yummy and familiar,
reading her hand-me-down script,

more alive than the cherry tree blooming
outside my window, more permanent
than my own body
that once slipped out of hers,

my half-breed penmanship reduced,
like anyone’s, to scribble in the end—
the way we sign our names,
caress a cold ankle or pull up a sheet,
the way we say goodbye,
or fix a perfect salad.

She returns to me in fading ballpoint pen:
Press the garlic into the sides
of the wooden bowl.
Add tons of garlic and parmesan cheese.
Toss and serve
. I savor
every word.


  Julia Wendell's most recent book of poems, is The Sorry Flowers (Word Tech Press, 2009). In 2009 her memoir, Finding My Distance: A Year in the Life of a Three-day Event Rider, was published by Galileo Press. When she’s not writing poems, she’s riding horses, and at 56, still likes to attack four-foot high obstacles at 570 meters per minute. She lives on a horse farm in northern Baltimore County with her husband, poet and horseman, Barrett Warner.


Photo used under Creative Commons.