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

The Almost Adulterer’s Guide to Menu Planning

by Michele Battiste

November 2013

When I cook with wine, I am thinking of another man.
When I cook with the good wine, I think, “any other man but you.”
When I drink the wine I'm cooking with, I'm putting forth
     the effort to be present.
When I omit anchovies in the puttanesca, I resent
     your particular tastes.
When I make a pesto and the dirty dishes remain where I left them, I regret
     it in the morning.
When I melt butter and lick it off a plate, I've been neglected.
Anything with sausage means indulgence.
Anything with bacon begs, “indulge me.”
Anything with sour cream screams, “don't ignore the signals I'm sending.”
Any time I put salsa on everything, I should have just licked melted butter
     off a plate.
Any time I cook with fish or eggs, I don't give a damn what you're to eat.
Any time I make an apple crumble, I'm contrite.
When I toast the meatball subs until the cheese is bubbling, I am appealing
     to the part of you that prefers to live alone.
When I make a chili, don't call it a stew.
When I make gazpacho, don't call it a stew.
When I make a stirfry, don't call it a stew.
When I spoon cottage cheese from the tub into the baby's mouth, I remember
     the night you made Hungarian pasta three years ago.
When I make kaposztas teszta, my mother makes it better.
When I make umborkasalata, my mother makes it better.
When I make macaroni salad, I remember when you told my mother
     that my macaroni salad was better than hers.
When I read the cookbook, I am trying to remember.
When dried salami and head cheese are hidden in the crisper, my mother
     is coming for a visit. She knows about our sex life, I have sunk that low.
When I put blackberries in the pancakes, I am pleasing you.
When I put blueberries in the pancakes, I am pleasing me.
I never put raspberries in anything.
I don't make stew.
I microwave frozen burritos when the marriage is doomed.
I heat canned tomato soup when the marriage is doomed.
When I refuse to acknowledge a doomed marriage, I add carrots, celery, tortellini and
     hope it is enough.
When I bake cookies from cake mix, they are often for someone else.
When I use the measuring spoons, I don't trust myself.
When I roast the root vegetables I wish someone else would roast the root vegetables.
When I wash the dishes, I wish you would get off your ass and wash the dishes.
When I make strawberry rhubarb crumble, it is summer and I almost believe
     you find me lovely.
When I pan-fried peaches in butter and brown sugar for the vanilla cream,
     it was summer and I was in love.
When I cooked who knows what in lingerie and heels, it was summer and you asked.
When I read the cookbook, I am trying to remember.
When I make stuffed peppers, I am staring at the last ditch.
When I find fresh mint for the yogurt sauce, I still think how pleased you'll be.
When I make the sauce Patrizia from Sardinia taught me, I think it will be okay.
When I stir fry string beans in sesame oil and soy sauce, I believe
     perfect combinations are possible.
When I price the snow peas, I am thinking of another man, the one who tends
     a garden, the one who mixes dressing, the one who cooks with ginger
     for the heat.


  Michele Battiste is the author of Ink for an Odd Cartography (2009) and Uprising (2013, forthcoming), both from Black Lawrence Press. She lives in Colorado where she raises money for nonprofits undoing corporate evil.


Photo under Creative Commons.