"Blueberry" by Diane Lockward + Blueberry Buckwheat Pancakes

We have little choice in the matter when it comes to food memories; they choose us. Of what we do remember from childhood, inconsequential details rise up from our subconscious when the nerves are triggered, whether we're prepared or not.

When there are blueberries, I think of Christmas morning. Before my brother and I would arrive bleary-eyed and still in our pajamas to the living room, my mom had baked blueberry and poppy seed muffins. I also think of my grandmother. When I took a food writing workshop with Dianne Jacob earlier this year, a writing exercise focused on one object we could see from our chair. I chose blueberries, and they became the color of my grandmother's eyes as I remembered her in the kitchen, making goat's milk ice cream on a hot summer day.

This is what I wrote.

"Two blueberries lean together on a white napkin. They are the eyes of my grandmother, piercing me from the doorway in her small kitchen, gesturing that the ice cream is ready. Icy, freshly churned in the wooden bucket, we eat it together on the porch at dusk, and in the first, sloppy bite, is summer's entirety. The long season sloshing around in my stomach, like a caged bird longing to be free."

The French Laundry in 14 Stanzas

A story about The French Laundry begins with these truths. Food is a form of poetry. Ingredients in a recipe, like carefully chosen words on a page, are composed. Cooking, like writing, is creative, soul-stirring work. 

"Cooking is not about convenience and it's not about shortcuts. Our hunger for the twenty-minute gourmet meal, for one-pot ease and prewashed, precut ingredients has severed our lifeline to the satisfactions of cooking. Take your time. Take a long time. Move slowly and deliberately and with great attention." - Thomas Keller, The French Laundry Cookbook

"The Quiet World" by Jeffrey McDaniel + Ginger Noodle Soup

Quiet is difficult to find most days. We can schedule it, we crave it, and must be purposeful in our quest for peace and order. Even my dog is a heavy breather, so when she sleeps sideways in her bed, I can still hear her in the next room.

This poem makes a good case for silence. What seems absurd at first read—limiting our speech to 167 words per day—is actually a compelling idea. What would we say if we had less than 200 words to say it in? It would force us to think before we speak, become calculated, thoughtful, and only focus on that which is the most important. By the end of the poem, we find two lovers that have used all their words, and can do nothing but listen to each other breathe. This poem reminds us of what can still be said in the silences, and how just existing next to one another, we communicate in a deeply intimate way without uttering a single word.