What I'm Reading | December 2013 + New Literary City Guides

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And here we are. Twelve months later, twelve months older, and hopefully wiser and braver, too. My December was filled with the usual trappings of holiday festivities: champagne, spiced apple cider, twinkle light watching, family visiting, Downton Abbey season 1-3 watching (season 4 starts in January!!), cookbook reading, and even a little time for writing. 

Cheers as we go swiftly into a new year.

I need to visit Rachel so she can make me this. 

A Jane Austen trivia game is really happening. 

An Italian reality show for writers

"I am almost always right in feeling that there is a poem in something if it hits me hard enough."

The cultivation of Christmas trees.

Ring bells, be joyful

13 must read links for food writers

Jhumpa Lahiri meets brownies

"We're all in this together, and that's why it's a movement." 

What happens when you ask strangers to see the last photo taken on their phone? This.

New! Literary City Guides

From the tree-lined streets of Williamsburg, Brooklyn to the bustling cafes of Bangalore, India, today's new literary city guides take you around the world. Both cities have a strong coffee culture, and enough bookstores, restaurants, and museums to keep any traveler busy for days. Stop by to visit the latest Literary City Guides! 

That Fluttering of Mute Flies: Reflections on Why Poetry Matters

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"A poem is occurring every moment

         for example

that fluttering of mute flies..."

-Mario Santiago Papasquiaro

As 2013 comes to a close, I want to ask a simple question: Why does poetry matter?

During National Poetry Month this past April, I gave much thought to why I (or anyone), should care about poetry. You might think that a person with a masters degree in the subject, a writer since about age six, and with a literary food blog to her name, has never questioned the purpose of poetry in her life. But you would be wrong.

Most days I spend about an hour commuting home in the late afternoon, which gives me ample time to ponder such questions, and my train of thought goes something like this:

I hope the 101 isn't backed up like it was yesterday.

I'm glad I remembered to put almonds in my purse last night.

What dress will I wear to the New Year’s Eve party? I should really go back to the mall this weekend.

Poetry is a reflection of the soul. It articulates emotions we can't verbalize.

If I have enough energy, I'll bake muffins tonight.

Do I have time to do yoga? Maybe just a couple of stretches.

Why do I blog?

Do people even read poetry anymore? I don't even read that much poetry, and I blog about it!

All writing is about relationships. The relationship between the writer and her subject, the writer and her readers...

I'm hungry.

Poetry is an escape, a truth, an absolute. It's like listening to jazz. Anything can happen.

Why does poetry matter? I've wondered this so much in the past year that I've taken to reading all the arguments I can. Books like Can Poetry Matter? and Beautiful & Pointless make the case for this "endangered species" as Edward Hirsh puts it in How to Read a Poem: and Fall in Love With Poetry. 

In the end, though, logic cannot win. There is no arguing for poetry, because it’s something to be felt. You need it and crave it, like a primal hunger. You cannot ask why too frequently. Sometimes, yes, I wonder why poetry and not something else. Why not snowboarding or classical music or landscape painting? So the why becomes a what. Not why do I care, but what should I do?

After finishing my academic studies, I found poetry less relevant. I still enjoyed reading it, but with the absence of a practical purpose (like analyzing it for a required paper, or being around other students with the same passion), my relationship with poetry was forced to change, and I didn't know how to cope. It took several years to find my way back. In the mean time, I started writing about food, and now here we are.

Wang Ping said this about the poet Ghassan Zaqtan, who won the 2013 Griffin Poetry Prize.  

"What does poetry do? Nothing and everything, like air, water, soil, like birds, fish, trees, like love, spirit, our daily words … It lives with us, in and outside us, everywhere, all the time, and yet, we are too often oblivious of this gift. It’s a poet’s job to bring this gift out and back, this gift that makes us human again." -Wang Ping

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This quote made me sit up a little bit straighter, because it articulates so well the role poetry plays in life. It's not a question of whether or not poetry exists or if it does or doesn’t matter, but how we respond to the daily reminders of its presence. Poetry is like the ocean, a river, a cluster of redwood trees, existing whether we see them or not, marvel at them or not. Sometimes poetry catches us in a quiet moment, and we remember how small we are. Sometimes we sputter a line or two, form it on the page days later. Sometimes we snap a photograph, find a wall to hang it on.

Poetry is just another way to say we are here, we saw this, we felt that.  

Poetry is in everything. From “that fluttering of mute flies,” to a bowl of flour and water, waiting on the counter to become bread, the work of your hands. Poetry is living and breathing, part of all we see, if we choose to see it and invite it in. 

In 2014, let’s resolve to listen close, to see beauty, to find the poetry in the every day. It’s waiting in the kitchen, in the air, and in the places we will travel. Poetry is already here, we know that. The question is, will we listen?

I’m curious: I know you’re out there, and that you cook and read and share a certain kinship with the space. I’d love to know why poetry matters to you. Please share your comments below!

"It is not Thanksgiving" by Melanie Harless + Chocolate Chess Pie

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During the second half of my college career, I worked for my university's Orientation Program, helping new students and their parents navigate the world of academic requirements, signing up for courses, and leading campus tours. It was one of the best jobs I've ever had. Although I spent a majority of my time working with students and giving academic requirement presentations, another portion of my role (and the part I secretly loved most) was spent reassuring parents that their fledgling freshmen would be fine. Better than fine, in fact.

They would ask about parties, about campus clubs, about safety, about living in the dorms. But what they were really asking was if their relationship would hold steady. They wanted to know their sons and daughters wouldn't be lost forever. I often shared stories about how my own relationship with my parents changed since arriving, and when a look over concern washed over their face during the parents-only cocktail hour, I always told them the same thing: Trust the job you've done.

The college years are a time when everything changes. Not only do relationships with old friends fade away as you navigate the waters with new ones, but the relationship with your parents changes, too. It's a very good thing when this happens, but the transition takes time. The shift from becoming a parent to becoming a friend is not always swift, and this is the narrative we enter when reading today's poem. 

It is not Thanksgiving

by Melanie Harless

She is coming home.
I’ll make her favorite foods,
turkey croquettes,
hash brown casserole,
homemade rolls, and
two chocolate pies,
an extra for the next day.
Croquettes are for leftover turkey
but it is not Thanksgiving,
so there are no leftovers.
Hard to find fresh turkey in July
but I buy a breast to cook
so that I have turkey to grind
and shape into little balls.
With flour on my clothes
and on my nose,
I set the rolls
on the counter to rise.
I assemble the casserole
to be oven ready.
It is a hot day
for stirring chocolate
at the stove, but soon
it will be thick and bubbly
ready to fill the waiting crusts.
Her flight gets in at five
I will finish the meal
after I pick her up.
It is not Thanksgiving
but time to give thanks.
My daughter is coming home.

Poem printed with permission from the author. Find a sampling of Melanie's nonfiction here and here. 

The first summer home from college is usually a challenging one. There are mixed emotions brought on by the pull to spend time with family yet also appear independent, and the desire to reconnect with high school friends amidst fears we've already changed too much to keep our relationships in tact through graduation. (Or maybe that was just me.)

But it is July, clearly not the ideal time to be basting a turkey, but a mother is preparing a feast anyway. The details are touching. We vividly see her rushing from counter to stove, stirring chocolate and setting rolls on the counter to rise. The imagery serves as a great reminder that although Thanksgiving only occurs once per year, every day is an opportunity to be thankful and reflect on what we're grateful for. In this case, a daughter's homecoming. In the spirit of the season, and with Christmas and New Year's around the corner, I hope you'll do what the mother in this poem does, and celebrate with your favorite foods, surrounded by those you love.

CHOCOLATE CHESS PIE

I've always been hesitant to make pie dough. Work quickly! Be sure your water is ice cold! Chill the flour! Use your hands! Use a food processor! It's enough to make a reluctant baker nervous and pale. But then I sat down and read and reread Deb's instructions over at Smitten Kitchen. I felt my confidence boost, and this time around, my dough was soft and supple, translucent with butter. I have a feeling this might become more of a habit.

Adapted from Add a Pinch

1 1/4 granulated sugar
3 tablespoons cocoa powder
4 tablespoons butter, melted
2 eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 9-inch unbaked pie crust (for crust, see Smitten Kitchen's all-butter recipe, and her tips for rolling out the dough)

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Add the sugar and cocoa to the bowl of a KitchenAid mixer and whisk on low speed to combine. Pour melted butter into the bowl and beat on high speed. Lightly beat the eggs, then add them, along with the vanilla, and mix on high speed for 2-3 minutes until the filling is whipped and has lightened in color (it will also double in size). 

Pour the filling into your pie shell and bake for 35-40 minutes. The pie is done when the center is a bit soft (it will continue to set as it cools). Let sit on a wire rack for at least 1 hour before serving.