"A Roman Garden" by Karl Kirchwey + Olive Oil Cake with Rosemary and Lemon

When you dream up a Roman garden, you might imagine one bathed in sunlight, just before dusk, fragrant with the pollen of spring flowers. Bees hum along as you walk along the pathways, pausing to gaze at a statue or two before sitting on a nearby bench. This is not the garden we meet in Karl Kirchwey's poem. His is a garden of darkness and midnights. A garden you visit in your restless dreams, not to pass an hour before stopping for dinner at a nearby trattoria.

A Roman Garden

By Karl Kirchwey

Last night I dreamed again I was his son
(searching always for fathers, orphan of sleep),
then woke to hear hooded crows in the rain
whose raucous cried reverberated deep
within the garden and its citrus grove
laden with chill and pebble-rinded fruit.

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Awful but cheerful

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When I started this blog, I had a  very clear intention of the post structure: recipes inspired by poetry. A  literal interpretation of poetry on a plate. And I love it, I do, but  the reality of poetry is that it's not always about food. (Shocking!) It's a passage here or there that inspires you on a tough day. It's an  American Life in Poetry series delivered to your inbox at 7 am when  you've just wiped the sleep from your eyes. It's a quote or an image or a  turn of phrase that stays with you for a while. It's reading a favorite poem on your birthday, while eating cake. So while the usual Eat This Poem posts will remain (and I already have a couple lined up), I plan to be intentional about leaving room to, on occasion, discuss poetry in the context of the everyday.

You can certainly eat poetry, that much has been proven, but my hope  today is to explore the space where poetry casually intersects with  life, because that's how I read poetry now. It's not an assignment, a  paper to be written, a passage to memorize. It's not even a poet to  emulate. It's for the pure wonder of it, snuck in on my lunch break or  just before bed. It's not very glamorous most of the time. I'm not  idling away in cafes huddling by the fireplace turning pages of the  latest collected works of my favorite poet. Who has time for that? It's  page by page, one line at a time.

"The Vegetables" by James McMichael + Asparagus Risotto

A couple of years ago, someone asked me what my signature dish was, and without hesitation, I replied with risotto. It surprises me now, because when I first started cooking, risotto was one of my least favorite things to make. I thought all the stirring and waiting wasn't worth my time. I lacked patience. I didn't see the beauty in the process. These are lessons I've learned now, but as a young, inexperienced cook, I didn't find value suspended in the grains of rice, but a pan filled with great risk. Risotto, as you may know, benefits from a good amount of loving attention. If you drift away and let the liquid absorb too much, the rice may stick to the bottom of the pan, or even worse, burn.

Once I warmed to the idea of maintaining constant watch on the stove, I still wasn't confident enough to know risotto's nuances. I wasn't certain if the rice was done, if it needed or less stock, or how much cheese to add. But with time, patience, and practice, comes intuition. Today, I just know when the rice is done. Then, I give the pan a triumphant shake, melt the butter and Parmesan, and whip the rice around with a wooden spoon until it flows like a river over smooth rocks. I always smile when I eat it, too.