Cooking Inspiration from The Pasta Queen: Poetry and Passion

This whole month of March, I have taken the SOL Challenge created by Two Writing Teachers. I chose to write a poem every day with the theme Nourishment. I have had fun writing food poems and remembering meals with friends and family in various places and at various times in my life. The more I wrote, the more I remembered. Of course, I started with my first memories of my grandfathers, Charlie and Tony making me food. Charlie started me off in the morning with soft-boiled eggs and buttered saltines. Tony was a consummate gardener and he exposed me to so many different fruits and vegetable. His specialty was stuffed zuchinni blossoms, which I devoured. Many of my poems and memories involve Italian food because that is my heritage. There is so much comfort for me in those flavors: tomatoes, garlic, and basil. I smell them, and I immediately relax and feel loved.

I have been binge watching Nadia Caterina Munno, the Pasta Queen. She is incredibly passionate about Italian food. Her show is a treat alternating from places in Italy to her kitchen in Florida. She is smart, funny, and spicy. What a personality! I love watching and listening to her. She makes me laugh and teaches me new things. I thought I was a pretty good cook, but Nadia has given me quite a few good tips. I love that she calls pasta water, “tears of the gods,” and she sprinkles the word “gorgeous” around like salt to describe all sorts of wonderful things that she is cooking. She truly makes cooking for family and friends an art. One of her recipes for roasted chicken inspired me to write a poem, because simple roasted chicken is one of my most favorite dishes to make.

Sunday Dinner

The chicken is sitting
ready for attention.
I massage it with olive oil,
garlic, rosemary, and thyme.
I cut a lemon in half
and place it in the cavity.
I tie the legs to keep
the lemon flavor in.
I place foil on the wings
to protect them from burning
before placing it in the oven.

This is my Sunday ritual –
preparing a table
for my husband and I,
nourishing food to start the week.
I chop russet potatoes,
quarter small yellow onions
and petite carrots.
I place them In a large bowl,
coat with olive oil and herbs,
mixing well with my hands.

The kitchen smells 
of lemon and herbs.
I inhale deeply,
this is my Sunday routine,
I relax into the pattern
of making this dish,
this meal I’ve made
a hundred times or more.
Halfway through the roasting,
I place the vegetables
around the browning chicken.
and bake till done.

I make a large, green salad 
with sliced cucumbers and celery
and whip up a simple dressing
of olive oil, lemon, and pepper.
When ready, we eagerly sit 
at the kitchen table in silence,
concentrating on the food before us.

We are full and satisfied.
Soon we clear the table 
and retreat to our books.
Then the kitchen calls me back
and I begin to clean stove top,
wash the dishes and pans
In warm, sudsy water
that soothes my hands
I sort and stack until everything 
Is its proper place,
Monday coming,
Dishes done.

After I wrote it and shared it with my Slice of Life writers, I decided to send it to Nadia to thank her for her love of food and her great sense of humor. I hope I hear back from her. You’re never to told to write fan letters and show gratitude. Nadia made me think about my time in Rome when I was 27, visiting friends, and traveling the countryside. It was a truly magical experience, which of course had me writing my memory being the guest of honor at my friend’s mother’s home.

When in Rome

Guest of honor
at my friend’s home in Rome.
His mother makes fresh pasta,
which dries on wooden rack
on a blue and yellow tiled counter.
She mills fresh garden tomatoes,
picks basil, and sautés garlic.
I smell home though
I’m thousands of miles away.
This is my homeland,
the land of my ancestors.
I set the table with colorful dishes 
and count each one in Italian.
Signora Mariani smiles and nods.
Soon, we sit down for lunch,
and I have two helpings of pasta.
Signora Mariani says, “Tu magi come un uccello.”
I shake my head and laugh.
Nothing can be further from the truth.
I eat like an elephant, not a bird.
She fills up my plate a third time.
I am stuffed, but I eat dutifully.
Then comes the fish, chicken, beef,
and bowls and bowls of vegetables.
Next, comes mixed green salad,
then a parade of pastries:
cannoli, sfogliatella, cassata, struffoli…
I keep eating and wonder
how I manage to not burst.
Fruit, cheese, and nuts arrive,
and then an anisette aperitif.
I sit in a comfy chair by the window,
sleep and dream of more food –
tables groaning with the weight
of beautiful food that nourishes,
I am at home here.