Posts tagged poetry

It seems like all of us have a story
about a late-night Waffle House 
run or how we ended up 
with a vintage cast-iron
skillet hanging
from our kitchen Peg-Board.

February 2012, p. 10

I.

No fried chicken should suffer
the indignity of a bulky overcoat
with padded shoulders.

II.

The crust is where the men
and the boys
separate.

p. 86 - 87, February 2012

Part of a series in which I translate text from recent issues of Bon Appetit into small, self-important poems.

While the end
of a thin rolling pin
or the bowl end
of a wooden spoon will get the job done,
a handmade wooden muddler
separates the players
from the pretenders.

(October 2011)

Part of a new series in which I translate text from recent issues of Bon Appetit into small, self-important poems.

Edible lichen that Nilsson gathers
from the surrounding forests during his daily walks
is put into that evening’s dishes

Nilsson hams it up
in a 100-year-old wolf pelt
belonging to Faviken’s former owner.

(September 2011, page 92)

Part of a new series in which I translate text from recent issues of Bon Appetit into small, self-important poems.

Keeping kosher salt
in a small bowl 
nearby at all times
allows Keller to season
food by feel
developing an intuitive,
tactile sense
of how much salt
he’s adding.

(September 2011, page 125)

Part of a new series in which I translate text from recent issues of Bon Appetit into small, self-important poems.

I.

Somewhere between
polishing off a bowl
of fried-to-order pork rinds
at La Bête in Seattle and downing handfuls
of popcorn dusted with apple-cider
vinegar powder at Barbuzzo
in Philadelphia, it hits me:
We’re living in
the golden age of bar snacks.

II.

Who can resist
grilled shishito peppers or chicken liver mousse
on toast with a pre-dinner drink?

(September 2011, page 27)

Part of a new series in which I translate text from recent issues of Bon Appetit into small, self-important poems.

Suspended-in-summer conserve brightens
toasts topped with Serrano ham.
A drop of aged balsamic
never hurts.

(June 2011, page 66)

Part of a new series in which I translate text from recent issues of Bon Appetit into small, self-important poems.

From Left: Chef Max
Designs his own chef jackets,
Like this linen one.

(October 2011, page 108)