"Gustatory" by Marie Murray + Cherry Tomato Bruschetta

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My husband took a year of Italian in college, and at one point during the semester his professor recommended a local restaurant where students could both practice their skills and enjoy an authentic meal. This restaurant was part-deli, part Italian grocery, and part trattoria, and it was here that we began ordering appetizers at every meal. Very specifically, for the next two years I would order bruschetta whenever it graced a menu. It was our "thing" during this phase of our lives, and part of the fun of going out was our never-ending search for the very best bruschetta. 

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Simple? Yes. But in fact, a lot can go terribly wrong with bruschetta.  The bread can be too thick, or not toasted. The tomatoes can be out of season. The garlic can be too heavy handed. But when the flavors are perfectly blended, there's absolutely nothing better to eat on a warm summer day.

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When Marie Murray submitted a few poems, she explained that she had recently completed a series of word memories, two involving food. This one peaked my interest and appetite, as it's timed well with tomato season, and gustatory by definition is "relating to or associated with eating or the sense of taste." 

Gustatory 

by Marie Murray

smelling is tasting,
the other the first,
a current of gustatory delight
in this gushing red tomato
and scent of basil.

Printed with permission from the author. 

When I first read this short poem, bruschetta was the first recipe that came to mind. To accompany the definition above, bruschetta is well-suited for a pairing because with only a few ingredients, the true flavors of a tomato are able to shine, enhanced only by a few strands of basil and a hint of garlic.

The poem is lighthearted and brief, but it captures the season, particularly the phrase "a current of gustatory delight." Eating a perfectly sun-ripened, in-season tomato is utterly delightful indeed. It's pure summer, pure joy, and because the season comes just once a year, it forces you to savor every bite.  

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CHERRY TOMATO BRUSCHETTA

The beauty of bruschetta is it can be made ahead, benefits from resting at room temperature, and, when tomatoes are at their peak of ripeness, one of the most satisfying additions to a meal. I prefer to enjoy the flavor of garlic without biting into a piece of clove, and find that grating it finely on a microplane helps the garlic infuse with the oil instead of overpower the dish. If you'd like to dress it up even more, add a drizzle of aged balsamic, or a smear of goat cheese. 

Just under 1 lb cherry tomatoes, halved (about 13 ounces)
1 garlic clove, grated on a microplane
2 large basil leaves, julienned
Salt and pepper
Extra-virgin olive oil (about 1 tablespoon)
1/2 a baguette, sliced into 1/2-inch pieces

Place the tomatoes in a medium bowl and add the garlic, basil, a pinch each of salt and pepper, and about a tablespoon of oil. If you have a small bottle of drizzling oil that you save for special occasions, this would be an excellent time to use it. A small amount is required, but since the ingredient list is short, a stunning oil will shine here. Give everything a good stir, and be sure the garlic is evenly distributed. Allow the tomatoes to sit at room temperature, preferably for 1-2 hours, before serving. 

Before you're ready to eat, preheat the oven to 425°F and place the baguette slices on a sheet pan. Drizzle with oil, then toast for 8-10 minutes, or until beginning to turn golden brown around the edges. Serve alongside the tomatoes. 

Living With Poetry | Following the Words to Shore

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Writers have this tendency. It's spurred by fear or guilt or shame or an utter lack of confidence. It's rooted deep within our souls, jousting with our innate impulse to create. Most writers, if you ask, will admit to being constantly at war with their desire to write and the pull of "what they should be doing." Writers have this tendency to consider themselves not worthy, not good enough, not writers. But you are. But I am.

I share this as a reminder, because after I finished graduate school and stopped writing poetry, I didn't feel like a writer again for a long time. Even while writing my old food blog, Cooking After Five. I didn't feel like a writer because I was writing about food, something I had never done before and with so little experience, I couldn't possibly be a writer, could I? It was only after coming here, to Eat This Poem, that I've felt comfortable enough to say it out loud for the first time in six years: I am a writer. 

All this came about because of a lunchtime conversation I recently had with a co-worker and friend where we discussed balancing our writing and professional lives. We also talked about poetry, and why we're so drawn to it now. (Reasons included its calming effects, that it forces you to pause, and its ability to be ingested in short doses.) Having grown up, our writing has transitioned from waves constantly lapping at the shore to a dry stream, not unlike the Los Angeles river. There have been false starts, occasional bouts of inspiration, and months of writing nothing at all except work emails or reports. The thing is, we like what we do. We work in a field we're passionate about. We don't want to sit in a cabin all day with a notebook. It's just that our love of writing has been pushed to lunch breaks, evenings, and weekends. Life happens.

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But something occurred to me that gave me a great amount of peace.  Our writing changes because our lives change. What doesn't change is our instinct, our desire to create, explain, understand. The words are simply waiting for us to make the first move. We must let go of who we once were and what our former writing life contained. Only then can we redefine what it will look like now and in the future. 

We might still live with a book of poetry tucked in our purses, on our phones, or piled on our night stands. We might not write as often. We might write something other than what brought us to writing in the first place. We might write a blog, or a screenplay, or book reviews, or the brochure for a fundraiser at our child's school, but we're still writing. Look at your writing life differently and imagine something new. This freedom will taste sweet, like the words of this poem by a former professor of mine, Barry Spacks.

Mela

Mela, mela, how it pleases.
Greek for "honey" - word so small
you can write it in the cold hard sand
in the time between two waves.

from The Hope of the Air

Let's remember this: If you've ever had a creative urge, drive, force, moment of clarity, moment of feeling compelled beyond reason, or electrical surge through your body that physically moves you to another room where you can write with abandon and in the full knowledge of doing just what you were meant to do in that moment, then you are a writer. Because you say you are, know you are, and because not writing would be so unbearable that you decide you can be brave, just this once. You can utter the words, even to yourself, in solitude, (I am a writer.  I am a writer) and follow the words to shore.