Today, I was to cook up a poem in two parts. The recipe was supposed to focus on food or a meal. Part of the poem was to season the food as a person, and I was to give it some spoken dialogue.
Boiled versus Fried
- First this:
Newlyweds were we,
having moved to above her garage
from over on Waverly Way.
She fixed supper for us,
and I first met up with boiled fucking
okra, AKA, slimy green snot.
It was nineteen hundred and sixty-six;
we were 19; something, like this, well folks,
you just never forget, or forgive.
I’m certain I heard the grassy flavored
seed pods of gumbo thickener sing
eat me raw, you city slicker. We be worldwide.
I wanted to puke. I could’ve just died.
Embarrassed, I mannered-up and sighed.
And I swallowed the snotty lady’s fingers.
Little evil green monsters, till one day…
- Then this happened…
A crunchy cousin, nicely coated,
in some restaurant, called theirselves fried okra
provided texture to my tale and it was,
step back, Jack, we gunna treat ya well.
Old John Henry called it all “Okree,”
like old aunty of the Mallow family
with a funny first name
and John seemed to fuss over the food
in a good way, but I passed on boiled,
stewed, raw, or wrinkled. Fried
is the only okra for this damn Yankee.
Look both ways and learn to try, but texture counts.
Mind the gaps, but India grows most okra and now has the most people (not China),
and they must eat a lot of okra over there.
In the Summa Theologiae, Thomas Aquinas said, “Gluttony denotes, not any desire of eating and drinking, but an inordinate desire… leaving the order of reason, wherein the good of moral virtue consists.” Inordinate? I only know this limit after I am well past it.
The opposite of gluttony is abstinence. Once again, from one extreme to the other. Abstaining from food can be a diagnosable eating disorder. We know how much, and of what things we should eat and drink. We must eat, but not too much; we must sleep, but not too much; we must drink. But there’s no such thing as too much fun.
My first restaurant review is of 
The receptionist area is where the cash register probably was back in the day. The two inside seating areas are separated by two steps (ADA?) with no visible ramp. Some tables are a little close for girthy customers, but it’s manageable. Ambiance is comfortable and ok, but should be a ready for a little rehab soon. Most tables seat four, but can be moved to accommodate larger parties. There are no booths. The acoustics are average and loud voices are easily heard.
The server explained some things regarding the pasta and we ordered a Greek salad and Spaghetti Alfredo (they did not have fettuccini). The wait staff was energetic and service was almost too fast. They are a little blunt and straight-up for some customers, but I think it fits the charm and atmosphere of the restaurant. While I’ve had better salads, it was ok. My wife thought the alfredo white sauce was subpar. The waiter boxed up her leftovers. I tried it the next day and found it on par with what comes in a jar from the store.
Overall
Long before I ever entertained the idea that I might want to write 
things that people don’t pay me for (as in my old day job), I read a biography about J.R.R. Tolkien. It impressed me that he and his writer group (the Inklings), which included C.S. Lewis, would gather at a pub (The Eagle and Child) to discuss writing and literature. They would read what they had written to each other and critique each other’s work. I want to be there to watch, to listen, to learn, and to discover. Can you imagine? This happened in the 1930s, 40s and 50s. Lewis and Tolkien were alive and writing during my lifetime.
Ironically, unlike the Inklings who were exclusively male, most ‘members’ of the kaffeeklatch group are women. The group was started by one of them (Hi Caz). We drink coffee (or your choice of morning beverage), eat, and talk. Some in attendance have even confessed to getting some writing done. I wouldn’t miss it. If you’re looking for me between nine and noon on Friday mornings, check the Black Dog in Snoqualmie. I am the one with short gray hair, wearing a cap, mostly listening, frequently laughing, and totally confused. Who is to say that the next Tolkien or Lewis is not sitting there, telling me how I need to work on my plot?
I am an Epicurean. I see nothing wrong with that and even see it as positive. In my house I have food and drink, some of which has minimal or no nutritional value. But I like them and they bring me a certain amount of pleasure. I also have substances that have value in the reduction of pain. Chances are that you do too.
derived from fine food and drink both in a person’s taste and, as it often relates to delight-providing establishments, restaurants. Synonyms for epicureans could include hedonist, sensualist, pleasure-seeker, sybarite, voluptuary, bon vivant, and bon viveur. More related words are epicure, gourmet, gastronome, connoisseur, and gourmand; a generous, life-loving epicurean. Much of how we use the term invites thoughts of fine food and drink. I personally favor the adjective Epicurean to mean leaning more toward an understanding of Epicurus and his ideas.
Our Literary Journey 