A Tumbleweed of Fire by Catfish McDaris (ALL ABOUT MY MOTHER Series)

A Tumbleweed of Fire
by Catfish McDaris

Mama blew quick across
the dustbowl plains

From the cottonfields
of panhandle Oklahoma

Scholarships galore, tennis,
basketball, and grades

At report card time, she’d
display her straight A’s

She became a mobile librarian
in New Mexico, I’d ride

Along to the Mescalero and
Jicarilla Apache Reservations

Learning about horses, arrowheads,
Pecos diamonds, and sand surfing

Her campfire went out at 61, someday
I hope to ask for her forgiveness.

PAINTING: Night Fires by Agnes Lawrence Pelton (1881-1961).

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: I would see those tumbleweeds (Russian thistle) rolling along on fire and it made me think of my Mom and myself. In a strange way.

AUTHOR’S PHOTO CAPTION: My mom, Winona Rae Myers, is from Eldorado, Oklahoma. This photo is her standing in front of the burning city dump; it kind of reminded me of the big fires there.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Catfish McDaris has been active in the small press world for 30 years. He has four walls, a ceiling, heat, food, a woman, a daughter, one cat, a typing machine, and a mailbox. Sometimes he gets lucky and someone publishes his words. In 1998, he read at a big Beatnik gathering in Cherry Valley, New York, at Ginsberg’s farm.

AUTHOR’S PHOTO CAPTION: Me on the end, my blonde sister, Cindy (Covid got her); my mom is standing. Grandmother is sitting, and lots of cousins, all alive.

Navigating Las Ramblas With My Mother by Nina Bennett (ALL ABOUT MY MOTHER Series)

Navigating Las Ramblas With My Mother
by Nina Bennett

She plods along, head down, gaze fixed
on the pavement. Steps heel to toe,
like she learned in balance class.

She misses the gargoyles, petunias cascading
from wrought-iron balconies, sweeping mustache
of the Dali mime posed with his palette.

Barcelona pulses around us, eager,
impatient. Mum urges me ahead,
reluctant to hold me back.

I thread through the crowd, glance
over my shoulder. No bowed head.
A flash of lime blazer

as the whirlpool of tourists swirls toward me.
I wait, link our arms, girlfriends
on summer holiday. I point to a rooftop sundial,
but her concentration remains on her feet.

She tugs my arm, halts. I follow
her gaze, notice the Miró mosaic
on the sidewalk. I slow my pace to hers,
longing to hold her back from the inevitable.

PHOTO: Las Ramblas, Barcelona, Spain; mosaic by Joan Miró (1976) — photo by Andrey Omelyanchuk.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: My parents were world travelers. After our father died, my brother and I dragged our mother all over, determined to keep her traveling. We had many delightful adventures together before her death in 2012.

PHOTO: The author (right) with her mother at a rooftop hotel lounge in Barcelona, Spain.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Delaware native Nina Bennett is the author of The House of Yearning, Mix Tape, and Sound Effects (Broadkill Press Key Poetry Series). Her poetry has been nominated for the Best of the Net, and has appeared in publications that include Silver Birch Press, South85, I-70 Review, Gargoyle, Yale Journal for Humanities in Medicine, Philadelphia Stories, and The Broadkill Review. Her awards include 2019 finalist Jack Grapes Poetry Prize, and the 2014 Northern Liberties Review Poetry Prize.

Prayer by Erna Kelly (ALL ABOUT MY MOTHER Series)

Prayer
by Erna Kelly

Each March, embodied in my brother,
my mother skis the double-diamond runs,
the woman who taught her chicks to fly
down the mountains of New York,
Vermont and New Hampshire. Before
we hatched, honeymooning in Quebec,
she did daily runs in the Laurentians.
Today, years and miles away, my brother
skis mindful of her gift, sculpting
monuments to Mom as he plies powder
in the Canadian Rockies. A daily dedication,
counted on rosary beads of ice and sweat,
he races along the course, concluding
with a hosanna of snow spray ascending
from a sharp end turn.
“I ski a daily run for Mom,” he writes,
“Will fit you in tomorrow as well.”
Exactly what she would have wanted.

IMAGE: Vintage poster found on eBay.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: I wrote “Prayer” in a response to an email from my brother when he was skiing in British Columbia; our mother took us hiking, taught us how to ski and swim, to relish the outdoors.

AUTHOR’S PHOTO CAPTION: My mother, 1939, at the age she started skiing.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Erna Kelly, originally from upstate New York, has lived without mountains in Wisconsin for 30 years. She now cross-country skis, while her brothers continue the family downhill tradition. She has poems in collections such as Soundings: Door County in Poetry and Ariel Anthology 2015, 2019, 2020, 2021, as well as in journals including Aurorean, Blue Heron Review, Bramble, Red Cedar Review, Portage Magazine, and Verse Wisconsin. She co-edited the 2020 Wisconsin Poets’ Calendar.

Tunes, Cilantro, and Dahlias by Maryann Hurtt (SPICES & SEASONINGS Series)

Tunes, Cilantro, and Dahlias
by Maryann Hurtt

at the Farmers Market
my ears listen for the up and down
sounds of tonal Hmong
words I do not know
but might understand
as parsley and cilantro
dance on my tongue
a few stands over
a giant zucchini hollers
eat me
look how I grow so green so long
no one should ever grow hungry
nearby daisies and dahlias
slip themselves
into hands waiting for beauty
as an old man tunes up his guitar
breaks into joy to you
fishes and me
and we all know
it could, should, and better
well be

 Photo by Shelley Pauls on Unsplash

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: I have always thought that cooking and writing poetry share so much of what I love. Experimenting with words as much as tasting new herbs, adding or subtracting. knowing all kinds of sensory detail, listening/tasting unfamiliar languages and foods all make me extremely happy. I have recently wandered around Farmers Markets in Montana; Eugene, Oregon; Washington DC, and Sheboygan, Wisconsin; and especially loved food, markets, and the sound of languages in Vietnam.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Although Maryann Hurtt lives in Wisconsin’s Kettle Moraine and loves where she lives, she is happy traveling and exploring Farmers Markets wherever she journeys. A retired hospice RN, she also has been a cook and has taught cooking classes. In 2021, Turning Plow Press published her book, Once Upon a Tar Creek Mining for Voices. Tar Creek is in Oklahoma and the water is orange and lead-toxic. Food is not safe grown or eaten here. Hurtt is passionate that folks know and heed the stories coming out of Tar Creek. Visit her at maryannhurtt.com.

Baked Alaska by Rafaella Del Bourgo (SPICES & SEASONINGS Series)

Baked Alaska
by Rafaella Del Bourgo

I.
Sometime after her husband died,
her grown children moved
to the clamor of the city;
she had two years when no one needed her
for anything.

Oh, the bliss.
A cup of cocoa,
a jigsaw puzzle
of herbs and spices on the card table,
The African Queen on TV,
Humphrey Bogart pulling all those
leeches off his legs,
as she fit the final piece
of the cinnamon stick into its place
between the ginger root and the nutmeg balls.
The fireplace radiated warmth.
Even when storms lashed and scoured the landscape,
she wasn’t going anywhere;
she sipped her hot cocoa
and didn’t give a damn.

II.
Then, an Elderhostel tour.
A gentleman from her home town
had taken her arm to steady her
when she almost fell down rain-slick steps
chipped so many centuries ago
up to this South American temple.

Oh, they saw ruins and more ruins.
Burial mounds for terrible gods,
the jungle a chaos
of screaming birds with jeweled eyes,
nightmare insects fashioned of twigs,
caterpillars, soft and chewing, chewing,
relentless.
Underfoot, the fecund smell of leaf-litter and slime molds,
and also the greening optimism of new shoots.

III.
His spouse, too, had died some years before,
left his house in shadow.
He turned to The Joy of Cooking,
found beating bowl and measuring spoon.
Invited the new woman to dinner.
Now he feared he might not reach perfection
with the coq au vin. Would it be too salty?
Had he used enough garlic,
enough, but not too much, cognac?

He had kept dessert a secret.
When he returned to the dining room without it,
his brow pleated,
she followed him into the kitchen.
The Baked Alaska was in ruins.
Ice cream and meringue dripped off the rack,
scorched on the oven floor.
She knelt beside him,
both of them reaching to clean up
the hot and sugary mess.
When she burned her fingers and cried out,
he slid them into his mouth.

PHOTO: Baked Alaska by Tetiana Kreminska. In the United States, February 1st is National Baked Alaska Day.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Rafaella Del Bourgo’s writing has been widely published in the U.S., Canada, Australia, and England, and has won many awards, including the Alan Ginsberg Poetry Award, the Paumanok Poetry Award, the New Millennium Prize, and the Mudfish Poetry Prize. Her chapbook Inexplicable Business: Poems Domestic and Wild was published by Finishing Line Press. She was the 2023 winner of the Terry J. Cox Poetry Award; her full-length book of poems will be published by Regal House Publishing.

Tintinnabula-tion by Ellen Rowland (SPICES & SEASONINGS Series)

Tintinnabulation
by Ellen Rowland

The tips of her pinched forefinger and thumb
were stained with paprika and turmeric,
a culinary henna trailing down her palm.
Her bright sari smelled of toasted cumin
and when her bangled wrists tapped the
edge of her bowl, they made a clear brass
bell of connection. There was no measuring,
no weighing. “Be generous with all,” she said.
I remember how she cupped a mortar and pestle,
the sandy crunch as she crushed globes of coriander
and clove, cracked pepper and petals of sea salt,
the soft release of garlic and ginger perfuming
the air under the weight of her knife. She anointed
pieces of lamb and eggplant, tomato, and onion,
her fingers oily and thick with spice paste.
While the meal began to sizzle, she nestled neat
balls of risen wheat beneath a clean, white cloth
and put them aside to rest. Soon, she said, patting
them gently. Only then did she look up at her students
and smile. She was stunning, small beads of sweat
on her upper lip, a halo of grey at the hairline.
“Can you smell that? It’s heaven.”

PHOTO: Spices for Indian cuisine by Vishakha Shah.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: While visiting Kerala, India, a few years ago, I took a cooking class with a woman who taught from behind her kitchen table. There were maybe eight of us. She didn’t explain much, but the care with which she prepared the meal felt like a holy experience, a sacred ceremony honoring the food and our senses. We all remained silent, mesmerized. The only sounds were the tinkling of her bracelets and the transformation of ingredients. Maybe a few pens taking notes. And the smells were heavenly, the meal never forgotten.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Ellen Rowland is the author of two collections of haiku/senryu, Light, Come Gather Me and Blue Seasons, as well as the book Everything I Thought I Knew, essays on living, learning and parenting outside the status quo. Her writing has appeared in numerous literary journals and in several poetry anthologies, most recently The Wonder of Small Things edited by James Crews. Her debut collection of full-length poems, No Small Thing, was recently published by Fernwood Press. She lives off the grid with her family on an island in Greece. Connect with her on Instagram and Facebook.

Saffron by Yvette Viets Flaten (SPICES & SEASONINGS Series)

Saffron
by Yvette Viets Flaten

Wending our way from Zaragoza homeward,
we rounded a sweeping curve—and rolled to a stop.
Before us lay a wide blue field of saffron crocus flowers,
riffling in a chill autumn wind.

Women with baskets, stooped, scarves tied tight, picking
the crocus heads. We watched, mesmerized by the cerulean
blue of the flowers rippling against brown Spanish earth,
the grey sky heavy with clouds, above.

I never forgot the ladies of the blue fields, their backs
bent to their task, the crocus flowers a metaphor for toil.
From each flower, three stamens would be plucked,
the essence of treasure, a Spanish trinity of sun, soil
and season, a vibrato that lifts rice to the Gods.

PHOTO: Saffron crocus field, Spain by Emilia Salafranca Barrios.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: We were stationed at Torrejón Air Force Base, near Madrid, Spain, from 1970-73. Knowing our time in Spain was limited, we made the most of our good fortune and traveled as much as we could, going on weekends to new destinations. This poem starts with a true incident, which did become a life lesson. I love paella and make it at least once a year, often for a celebration—birthday, homecoming, anniversary.  And it deserves the best ingredients, above all, the fabulous azafrán de España!

PHOTO: The author’s paella.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Yvette Viets Flaten grew up in an Air Force family and had the chance to live in a variety of locations in the United States and abroad. This sparked her lifelong love of languages, history, and food. She writes both poetry and fiction, and is always on the lookout for another cookbook.

Roses and Cardamom by Sheila Hailstone (SPICES & SEASONINGS Series)

Roses and Cardamom
by Sheila Hailstone

On a slow rice boat in Kerala
we drifted on a lazy river
dipping into jars of lip tingling
chili red Tamatar Kasaundi,
our mouths igniting
on Samosa and Pakora,
only quenched by cool Lassi.
A match of minds and hearts
of Thali plates and eating by hand
eyes connecting over
dishes spice full.
It ended with a gift of Rose toffee
sweetened with palm jaggery
laced delicately with cardamon
wrapped in last month’s newspaper.
savored on a train to Mumbai
as farewell tears fell uncontrollably.
This is how India entered my heart and never left.

PHOTO: Indian sweets by Kailash Kumar.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: In the early days of marriage, my husband took me to his beloved India and this is a reflection of this time.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
From Aotearoa, New Zealand, Sheila Hailstone sends poetry out into the world. In 2020, her work, “Waiting for an avalanche when you live by the sea,”  was awarded first prize in New Zealand Micro Flash Lockdown competition. She is the author of children ́s stories and a memoir, Dancing Around Cancer.

Ginger Biscuits by Lynn White (SPICES & SEASONINGS Series)

Ginger Biscuits
by Lynn White

It was a country guest house,
once a working farm.
The lady of the house was brushing Lily’s hair.
“Lily doesn’t go out anymore,” she said,
“she refuses.”

She put down her brush
and gave Lily a ginger biscuit
which was delicately eaten.
“I tempted her out for a walk
a couple of years ago.”
She waved the packet in explanation
of the source of temptation.

“We walked down the lane
and she was fine at first
and then a rabbit ran across.
She stopped and turned
and looked at me
with wild rolling eyes.
She would go no further
wouldn’t be tempted
so we turned.

She wanted to go home
but I tempted her,“ she waved the packet,
“and we went further.
Then a bird flew across
and she stopped and turned
to look at me with wild rolling eyes.
She would go no further
wouldn’t be tempted.
So we turned
and went home.”

She gave Lily a ginger biscuit
which was delicately eaten.
Then she opened up her storeroom
to show me the piled up boxes of
ginger biscuit,
floor to ceiling
ginger biscuit.
“Lily won’t eat anything else now.
And well, they don’t go far.
A packet of ginger biscuit,
it’s not much for a horse, you know!”

PHOTO: Horse-shaped ginger biscuit by Milla Fedotova.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: From a holiday experience in the Brecon Beacons, Wales, a long time ago!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy, and reality. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud “War Poetry for Today” competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and a Rhysling Award. Visit her at lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot and on Facebook.

This Salt: Dinner (Hvar Island, Croatia) by Nancy Lubarsky (SPICES & SEASONINGS Series)

This Salt: Dinner (Hvar Island, Croatia)
by Nancy Lubarsky

Waves from the sea splash
across rocks, slip back. Over time,
white crystals form in fissures. Each
day he mines these clusters, taps
them out with carver’s tools, collects
them in containers, pounds them
into tiny bits. He speaks no English
so we hear his story through our
guide—his indulgences, his
illness, what brought him to this
island. He sprinkles the salt on
swordfish he caught that morning.
This is how he nourishes us.
This is how he heals himself.

PHOTO: Sea salt by Maria Dmitrieva.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: I was on a group biking vacation in Croatia and one of the side trips was a cooking demonstration on the island of Hvar. The man who cooked for us was in “recovery” for something we never learned. But he told us, through our interpreter, that the cooking, the seaside healed him. He mined his own salt every day. I bought a jar from him, but it wasn’t until I came home and started writing that I really began to understand the power of the salt.

PHOTO: Mining salt on Hvar Island, Croatia. Photo by the author.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Nancy Lubarsky writes from Cranford, New Jersey. An educator for over 35 years, she retired as a superintendent. Her work has appeared in various journals, including Exit 13, Lips, Tiferet, Poetica, Comstock Review, Shotglass Journal, Stillwater Review, and Paterson Literary Review. Nancy received honorable mention in the 2014 Allen Ginsberg Poetry Awards, and again in 2016 and 2018. The author of two collections, Tattoos (Finishing Line Press) and The Only Proof (Kelsay Press, a Division of Aldrich Books), she received honorable mention from The Anna Davidson Rosenberg Poetry Contest (2018). Her manuscript, Truth to the Rumors, was chosen as one of five finalists, among 200 submissions, for the 2023 Laura Boss Narrative Poetry Award.