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

Recipe for Spaghetti all’Amatriciana

by Georganne Harmon

from the Italian Period    

March 2014    

Do not even put on your apron
unless you do not resist chopping onion
on the soft give of a wooden board,
half-moon rocking, slices even, or unless
you cannot resist the Italian husband who,
with instinct evolved in frescoed kitchens,
knows to an onion bit how it must be done.
No sense starting
if you have bought smoked bacon
and not hog jowl affumicata.

Slice garlic large enough to remove
with slotted spoon. Add these odors—
this fine-diced onion, this pale garlic—
with a flip of the wrist, not a slide
(resistance is everything in art),
to hot olive oil, thick, first press,
imported only from Lucca,
for the Spanish and French
do not know cazzo
about the culture of this gold.

Cube, don’t slice, the jowl, and learn the word
translucent. Onions, sliced with tears,
not cubed, garlic, and that piece of pig
should glow like sweat, a little daylight
shining through, not one second past.
Add Roma pelati, a modicum of these juices.
Resist rush: lower heat, break up tomatoes with a fork—
never a knife (the flavors will be a consistency
wrong, wrong, ruined); simmer, stir, anguish,
while he mops his brow and rests in the comfort
of the six-o’clock news: grim displays
of wife abuse, husband slayings.

If he accuses you of ruining this sauce,
if it sticks a little to the pot, if the wine
you add at the last has a grainy undertaste,
if the spaghetti is a tad past al dente
or poured out a millisecond too soon,
in a plastic colander, not stainless industrial steel,
do not resist: add one more tragedy,
one more police car’s scream,
one more news clip to the mix.


  Georganne Harmon grew up in Nashville,Tennessee, where she now makes her home. Her poems have appeared in various journals, including POEM, Pearl, Slant, New Millennium Writings, Maypop, and others. We Will Have Ghosts, her first collection, was published in 2011. A longtime teacher, she currently conducts writing workshops for young people and adults. Italy, a second homeland to which she returns often, forms a part of her landscape. Photographs by Georganne Harmon.