Archives for posts with tag: baking

creamcake
How to Cook and Serve a Husband
by Suzanne O’Connell

A new husband may have a high altitude.
In the beginning, one layer may form a hard crust,
or be too thin,
or form a hump in the middle.

But, ask yourself,
how often have you quickly obtained perfection?
It is always important to plan ahead!
Never forget: “the stomach is the seat of courage.”

In the cottage kitchen or the great house
on the hill,
it is important to try to prepare
a dainty and appropriate meal!

If, however, something burns,
or hardens before you spread it,
or is not an attractive combination,
never fear!

New husbands can benefit from tender endearments.
Feed their tender hearts if not their hungry
stomachs!
The prudent wife who fails in the kitchen
may choose to extend one of the following bon mots
of affection:

You are my lightening biscuit
You are my plump sweetbread
You are my nut bar
You are my hot molasses
You are my tropiceroma
You are my golden glow
You are my apple bun
You will forever be my royal educator!

PHOTO: From The Cook’s Book published by K.C. Baking Powder. The recipe is for K.C. Cream Cake.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: This is a found poem with phrases and names of sweet confections borrowed from cookbooks my grandmother used when she was first married in 1916. I have always been fascinated by the outmoded recipes, strange ingredients, and especially by the mentoring tone in many of the cookbooks that stressed the importance of a woman’s role in the kitchen. The books I used were: The Brides Cookbook, Cooking For Two, and Anyone Can Bake.

oconnell1

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Suzanne O’Connell lives in Los Angeles, where she is a poet and a clinical social worker. Her work can be found in Forge, Atlanta Review, Crack The Spine, Lummox Journal, The Louisville Review, Blue Lake Review, G.W. Review, Reed Magazine, Permafrost, Mas Tequila Review, The Round, The Griffin, Sanskrit, Foliate Oak, Talking River, Organs of Vision and Speech Literary Magazine, Willow Review, The Tower Journal, Poetry Super Highway, Thin Air Magazine, Fre&d, The Manhattanville Review, poeticdiversity, The Evansville Review, Serving House Journal, Silver Birch Press, Schuylkill Valley Journal, and Licking River Review. She was a recipient of Willow Review’s annual award for 2014 for the poem “Purple Summers.” She is a member of Jack Grapes’ L.A. Poets and Writers Collective. Visit her at suzanneoconnell-poet.com.

Mahan
That’s the Way the Cookie Crumbles
(circa 1960)
by Susan Mahan

Nine-year old Susan Dailey’s mother
made tollhouse cookies from scratch.
That was the big incentive
for me to learn to bake when I got married.
I remembered the texture
of the melted chips in those warm cookies.

Susan and I were best friends back then.
I always wanted more cookies than Mrs. Dailey offered,
but I never would have asked for them.
It would have been impolite to be piggy,
and I had to keep the reputation
of the Catholics in good standing.
My friend’s family was Protestant.

I felt bad that
they wouldn’t be in Heaven
with me after we all died.
They were misguided, but nice people, after all.

AUTHOR’S NOTE ON THE PHOTO: Thanksgiving dinner at Auntie Phyll’s house, 1961. I am in the second row from the top, sitting amongst my siblings and cousins. I am the one smiling, with dimples, age 10.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: My friend and I lived in South Boston back then, a city that was largely Catholic. My friend’s father was a Protestant minister, a factor that led me to worry about the family’s future!

susan-mahan

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Susan Mahan has been writing poetry since her husband died in 1997. She wanted to be a writer as a kid, but life got in the way. She has now written over 350 poems and has gotten many of them published.

Harding Woodworth
Dessert Is Not the End
by Anne Harding Woodworth

The night we made s’mores
our lives slid into each other further,

closing the gap of our childhoods—
parallel lines distanced by miles

of prairieriversandgreatlakes over separate campfires,
separate hearths in those days. Yet there was a sharing

of chocolatemeltedmarshmallowandgrahamcrackers.
An uncomplicated recipe is not forgotten—

like the taste of coalescence, a sliding
of something into an opening, sweet, dark and light,

soft and heated and held within sturdy walls—
you and me, at last folding the child

into the story of all these years—
and wishing for s’more, just a few more.

PHOTO: Anne and Fred in the 1950s. They did not know each other as children.

Anne Harding Woodworth (5)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Anne Harding Woodworth
is the author of five books of poetry and three chapbooks. Her persona poems in the voice of a woman who dreads being confined in her old age morphed into a one-woman play, Hannah Alive, in which Hannah reminisces about her childhood, her marriage, her art, all the while contemplating alternatives to a “rest home.” Harding Woodworth, mother of two professional soccer players, married Fred Woodworth in her late forties. Visit her at annehardingwoodworth.com.

gonzalez 2
Buñuelos
by liz gonzález

Grandma stands at the kitchen counter
like a luchador in an apron, ready for a match.
She slaps stretched dough onto its back,
rolls a hacked-off broomstick over the top,
twists to the stove and slides
the full-moon tortilla into an iron pan.
Boiling oil swallows, spits, hisses
until the tortilla blisters, crisps.
She dips her pincher fingers in quick,
snatches the crunchy wafer from its bath,
flips it onto a paper towel lined plate,
slathers the top with cinnamon-piloncillo syrup,
and plops the sweet treat on the plastic
pink placemat in front of me. I blow on it,
pick it up with both hands, and take a bite.
The buñuelo breaks into a twenty pieces.
I lick up the crumbs, sugar, my sticky fingers
Grandma leaps back to the counter
for another smackdown.

SOURCE: An earlier version of “Buñuelos” was published in Art / Life, August 2001m and Lummis Day Souvenir Program, June 2008.

PHOTOGRAPH: lizzy’s eighth birthday, August 22, 1967.

AUTHOR’S NOTE ON THE PHOTO:  This is my eighth birthday celebration in the kitchen of my childhood home. In the picture are Grandma, my sisters Cynthia (older) and Michelle, and me. It was the last year I celebrated my birthday alone. Monique, my baby sister, was born the next year on the day before my birthday and to this day we celebrate together.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: When my father died, I was three and my baby sister had just turned one. My maternal grandmother, who helped run her parents’ market as a teen and then ran her own family market, quit working at 53 to be our second mother while my mother and grandfather were at work. For seven years, even after my mother remarried and had two more daughters, Grandma took care of us during the day and remained our second mother until she passed five and a half years ago. She said that those years were some of the best years of her life. During those years, she taught us how to make traditional Mexican food, like tortillas, mole, and buñuelos. My sisters, mother, and I will always be grateful to Grandma.

liz-gonzalez-zwark

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
liz gonzález, writes poetry, fiction, and memoir. Her work has appeared in numerous literary journals and anthologies, including Inlandia: A Literary Journey, Silver Birch Press’s “Where I Live” Series, BorderSenses Literary & Arts Journal, and Wide Awake: The Poets of Los Angeles and Beyond. Her awards include an Irvine Fellowship at the Lucas Artists Residency Program and an Arts Council for Long Beach Professional Artist Fellowship. Currently, liz lives in Uptown Long Beach, is the host and curator of Uptown Word, a poetry and storytelling reading series, and teaches creative writing at community venues and through the UCLA Extension Writers’ Program. For info: www.lizgonzalez.com

Cupcakes with cherries in tins on board
CHERRY MUFFINS
by Sasha Kasoff

Vague measuring
Egg cracking
Anxious mixing
Cherry pitting

Greasing pan
Spooning batter
Setting oven

The wait
The smell

Rolling out from the oven
Honey and comfort
Twisting through my home
And then they are done
Steaming and perfect
I could eat the whole batch
With tea, coffee, or nothing at all
Nothing warms my day
Like cherry muffins

Sasha

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Sasha Kasoff is a published poet, fantasy writer, and aspiring teacher. Having recently returned from studying abroad in Ireland, she is currently attending University of the Pacific, earning her BA in English with plans to continue her studies in creative writing as a graduate next year. Her poetry can be found in two self-published books as well as in anthologies, magazines, and other literary presses. Look for her on Goodreads.

AUTHOR’S MUFFIN RECIPE: (For Cherry Muffins, add dried cherries.)

Chai Latte Muffins
1 cup milk
4 teabags

1/4 cup vegetable oil
1
 egg
1 tsp vanilla extract

1 cup sugar
1 1/3 cups all purpose flour
1/4 tsp baking soda
1 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp salt
2 tsp ground cinnamon
1 tsp ground cardamom
1/2 tsp ground ginger
1/4 tsp ground cloves
pinch of ground pepper

honey
butter

Preheat oven to 325-375F. Heat milk to almost boiling (in the microwave or a small sauce pan) and steep the tea bags in it for about 10 minutes, making very strong, milky tea. Don’t worry about making the tea bitter (which can happen as a result of over-steeping) because you won’t taste it in the end product. In a large bowl whisk together the wet ingredients. In a small bowl, mix the dry as well. Pour half into the egg mixture, stirring well, followed by the tea mixture and the rest of the flour. Stir only until just combined, then evenly distribute into prepared muffin tins.
Bake for about 21-25 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean and the muffin springs back when lightly pressed.
Cool completely on a wire rack.
 Makes 12 muffins.

Peach Cobbler and Vanilla Ice Cream
CONTEMPLATING DESSERT
by Ki Russell

Cinnamon ice cream melts
                                                along the sliver
                           of hot peach that pokes
above a cobbler roof.
                           Milky dribbles slide beneath
                                                the pastry,
swirl in syrup
                           and spiral through the dessert.

My spoon waits.
I am caught watching my confection destroy
the ice cream. An inevitable death by heat.
Not death, but transformation, the napkin assures me.
The liquid state suits the ice cream:
returns it to something akin
to the original form
before all of the salt
and freezing pails
paddled it up.
Go ahead, the spoon whispers,
cut in. Fulfill the dish’s purpose.
Stop waiting.

Ki

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Ki Russell teaches writing, literature, and creative writing at Blue Mountain Community College in Pendleton, Oregon, where she resides with her husband and two children, Rook and Ashe. Her hybrid genre novel The Wolf at the Door was released in August 2014 by Ars Omnia. Her full-length poetry collection Antler Woman Responds was released in June 2014 by Paladin Contemporaries, and in 2011 Medulla Publishing released her chapbook How to Become Baba Yaga. She holds a Ph.D. in English from the University of Louisiana at Lafayette.

Wayne-Thiebaud-Cakes-1963-oil-on-canvas
WAITING FOR CAKE
by Tobi Cogswell

I’m waiting for cake
to fully celebrate
the holiday season, and winter
that truly is winter.

I’m waiting for spice
on my tongue, that tastes
the way fireplaces
smell, when you step out

on the porch and can’t tell
the direction, chimney smoke
hidden by clouds and the night
black-brown as chocolate,

just as intoxicating, the sexy
dark wrapped around like a cloak,
comfort and mystery.
I’m waiting for almond,

the tweed of tastes, color
the speckled loveliness of
dusty piano keys,
or marzipan the pale green

of fondant, draped like bedsheets,
a carpet of grass laid sideways
and silent under frost, the snows
of December. I am waiting . . .

IMAGE: “Cakes” by Wayne Thiebaud (1963).

tobi-lapses-and-absences

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Tobi Cogswell is a five-time Pushcart nominee and a Best of the Net nominee. Her seventh and latest chapbook is The Coincidence of Castles from Glass Lyre Press. Her collaborative full-length collection, The Color of Forgiveness, is available from Mojave River Press. She is the co-editor of San Pedro River Review (www.sprreview.com).

Girl in chef's hat and apron with beater
WHIPPING CREAM
by Marianne Hales Harding

I am waiting for the magic moment when liquid turns to solid(ish),
when the cream’s experience changes from being the fat behind the scenes to the glimmer in a child’s eyes.
I turn the whisk again and again in faith,
filled with hopes for a new life
for the cream
and the creamer
(who looks for evidence of magic in tiny things like whipped cream
and hangs her hopes on the idea that wishes can suddenly come true
just when you are ready to set the whisk down)

DSPortraits-07

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Marianne Hales Harding is a poet and playwright whose work has been produced in theaters from New York to Seattle and published in both online and print venues (such as Everyday Mormon Writer, Brooklyn Publishers, SheKnows, and ePregnancy). She mentors emerging writers as the cofounder of the creative writing open mic Speak for Yourself in Provo, Utah, where she lives with her two daughters, two birds, one dog, and at least one mouse (unless the recent anti-mouse measures  were effective).

Image
BUTTER
by Elizabeth Alexander

My mother loves butter more than I do,
more than anyone. She pulls chunks off
the stick and eats it plain, explaining
cream spun around into butter! Growing up
we ate turkey cutlets sauteed in lemon
and butter, butter and cheese on green noodles,
butter melting in small pools in the hearts
of Yorkshire puddings, butter better
than gravy staining white rice yellow,
butter glazing corn in slipping squares,
butter the lava in white volcanoes
of hominy grits, butter softening
in a white bowl to be creamed with white
sugar, butter disappearing into
whipped sweet potatoes, with pineapple,
butter melted and curdy to pour
over pancakes, butter licked off the plate
with warm Alaga syrup. When I picture
the good old days I am grinning greasy
with my brother, having watched the tiger
chase his tail and turn to butter. We are
Mumbo and Jumbo’s children despite
historical revision, despite
our parent’s efforts, glowing from the inside
out, one hundred megawatts of butter.

Image

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Elizabeth Alexander was born in Harlem, New York, but grew up in Washington, DC, the daughter of former United States Secretary of the Army and Equal Employment Opportunity Commission chairman, Clifford Alexander Jr. She holds degrees from Yale, Boston University, and the University of Pennsylvania, where she earned her PhD. Currently the chair of African American Studies at Yale, Alexander is a founding member of Cave Canem, an organization dedicated to promoting African American poets and poetry. Her accomplishments within academia include a Quantrelle Award for Excellence in Undergraduate Teaching from the University of Chicago and fellowships from the Radcliffe Institute at Harvard and the Alphonse Fletcher Foundation. Alexander’s books include American Sublime (2005), shortlisted for the Pulitzer Prize, and recipient of the 2005 Jackson Poetry Prize. When Barack Obama asked her to compose and read a poem for his Presidential inauguration, her poem, “Praise Song for the Day,” became a bestseller after Graywolf Press published it as a chapbook.

Image
BUTTER
by Elizabeth Alexander

My mother loves butter more than I do,
more than anyone. She pulls chunks off
the stick and eats it plain, explaining
cream spun around into butter! Growing up
we ate turkey cutlets sauteed in lemon
and butter, butter and cheese on green noodles,
butter melting in small pools in the hearts
of Yorkshire puddings, butter better
than gravy staining white rice yellow,
butter glazing corn in slipping squares,
butter the lava in white volcanoes
of hominy grits, butter softening
in a white bowl to be creamed with white
sugar, butter disappearing into
whipped sweet potatoes, with pineapple,
butter melted and curdy to pour
over pancakes, butter licked off the plate
with warm Alaga syrup. When I picture
the good old days I am grinning greasy
with my brother, having watched the tiger
chase his tail and turn to butter. We are
Mumbo and Jumbo’s children despite
historical revision, despite
our parent’s efforts, glowing from the inside
out, one hundred megawatts of butter.

Image

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Elizabeth Alexander was born in Harlem, New York, but grew up in Washington, DC, the daughter of former United States Secretary of the Army and Equal Employment Opportunity Commission chairman, Clifford Alexander Jr. She holds degrees from Yale, Boston University, and the University of Pennsylvania, where she earned her PhD. Currently the chair of African American Studies at Yale, Alexander is a founding member of Cave Canem, an organization dedicated to promoting African American poets and poetry. Her accomplishments within academia include a Quantrelle Award for Excellence in Undergraduate Teaching from the University of Chicago and fellowships from the Radcliffe Institute at Harvard and the Alphonse Fletcher Foundation. Alexander’s books include American Sublime (2005), shortlisted for the Pulitzer Prize, and recipient of the 2005 Jackson Poetry Prize. When Barack Obama asked her to compose and read a poem for his Presidential inauguration, her poem, “Praise Song for the Day,” became a bestseller after Graywolf Press published it as a chapbook.