This is a new poem that I wrote for my poetry class with Dawn McDuffie. The formatting came out sucky, sorry about that! :-( It is a DRAFT:
Aubergine, Solanum melongena, a Recipe
Open your loppers and wield them like the
mandibles
of a huge insect. Steer them step-by-step
toward the tall rangy plants
that bow with the weight of their
fruit. Swoop and center the jaws
around the fruit-stalk, yank closed the
teeth to sever the tough stem.
Watch the purple, pear-shaped fruit plop
onto soil
damp and fragrant from days of rain. Carry
it reverently
to the coiled hose, allowing each of your
ten fingers
to stroke the rich, smooth skin. Wash the few
dirt clusters
from the plump base of the fruit with a soft
spray
and dry the fruit on your clean cotton
apron. Enjoy the way
the water droplets sink into the fabric and
disappear,
leaving only faint and fading dark spots on
the paisley pattern.
Brush your lips against skin the color of
stormy sunset.
Inside, place a skillet on the fire, add
fat, and turn up the flame.
Slide the cutting board from its home along
the window wall
and pull the thick-handled butcher knife
from its block.
Lay your sacrifice on the wooden altar and
slice from the shoulders
to the hips. Pause to admire the creamy flesh and small designs
of seed. In a low, flat dish pour
stone-ground cornmeal, flour,
salt, pepper, garlic, and a pinch of Old
Bay. Blend with a fork.
From the egg basket on the sideboard, raise
your piles
of fresh-picked spinach, cilantro and
parsley, pausing to sniff
the aromatic cilantro, and lift out two
brown eggs. Thump them
quickly against the edge of the sink, pull
the shells apart
and let the wet suns in their small seas
fall into a flat dish.
Mix with the fork. One by one, lay the
slices in the beaten eggs,
flip them, lay them in the cornmeal, flip
them and drop them
into hot fat. Listen for a quick sizzle and
a hiss of bubbles.
When the edges brown, turn them over and
watch them dance.
When the slices resemble the sunset gold of
the elm leaves
that gather in the tall grass outside your
window, lay them
on towels to drain and cool. Arrange like
petals of a flower
on Grandma’s heirloom Botanica platter, with
sprigs of parsley
and cilantro. Danger! Don't make these more than once a year
and don’t burn your tongue as you groan and
savor
the crunchy crust that clings to the hot,
soft fruit.
Mary Stebbins Taitt
for
Margaret and Keith
111018-1516-2a(3),
111017-1432-1b(2), 111017-0836-1st complete,111016 partial draft a
Further
instructions, not part of poem:
layer
the leftovers with tomatoes and parmesan
and
bake. Cut into rectangular chunks and serve warm.
-OR- Place the fresh
fruit in the microwave ten minutes.
Cool. Carefully scrape the
soft pulp
from
the now delicate skin, add lemon, olive oil, tahini and garlic
and
spread on pita, toast or chips.
Wallow then, in the gorgeous glory of baba ghanouj.
