This is my fourth year taking the SOL Challenge. In the past, I had chosen to write poems about birds for 31 days, and then last year I wrote about flowers for 31 days. This year, I’ve decided to write about nourishment – all types of food for 31 days. Being of Italian heritage, food has always been an important part of my life. I wake up and go to sleep thinking about the food I will make and eat the next day. As I grow older, I think about food as nourishment for both my body and soul. I hope you enjoy my creations.
Thanks for reading, Slicers! I appreciate the kind words and recommendations!
March 31
March 30
March 29th
March 28th
March 27th
March 26th
March 25th
March 24th
March 23rd
Farmhouse Peaches
I step into Elsie’s farmhouse kitchen.
She is silver-haired and smiling,
waving a welcoming spoon at me.
I am visiting for the weekend
just before I begin college in September.
I love this old farmhouse
built in three different centuries –
the original house built in the 1780s,
then an addition dating from 1860’s and
then again, the big kitchen from the 1930’s.
The main house has very low ceilings
and wide plank pine floors.
Elsie asks if I’m ready for canning peaches.
I smile and nod eagerly,
I dutifully climb the creaky steps
and bring down a box of peaches
from their resting place
under the quilt-covered brass bed
I take a deep breath and inhale
peach blossom perfume.
In the kitchen Elsie is
getting the water bath ready
for the stout glass Mason jars.
I take each washed peach
and mark it tenderly with an X
to make them easy to peel.
We dip them in boiling water
for a few minutes and
drop them promptly
into a lemony cold-water bath.
We peel and slice the peaches.
Elsie makes the sugar syrup,
I pack the peach slices
into each waiting Mason jar
and Elsie pours the syrup
over the fragrant peaches.
We carefully put on the lids
and place the jars
in the large pot of water.
The water quickly comes to a boil.
We sit down in the sunny kitchen
Until we need to remove the jars
and set them to cool on
the tea towel-covered counters.
The weekend goes by quickly
and I eat my fill of peaches,
Rhubarb, tomatoes, collards,
Rutabagas, parsnips –
and every root vegetable
I can possibly think of.
When it’s time to leave,
Elsie walks me out to the car,
wishes me luck at school –
“Work hard, but not too hard”
I promise and give her a long hug,
take in the farmhouse and the fields.
As I’m about to pull out,
Elsie waves a finger at me
and touches her head
“Wait!” she declares
As she turns back to her house
and emerges moments later
with a large sunny jar of peaches.
She places it in my grateful hands.
Months later as I’m study for exams,
I rummage through my snack stash
and find the long-lost Mason jar
shining with golden peaches
I place two halves in a bowl,
All at once I taste summer.
March 22nd
March 21st
March 20th
March 19th
Café Brittany
Sunday trip into the city,
New York City – the Big Apple.
My father driving into
the Lincoln Tunnel
and emerging into Midtown.
Then we’d wind our way
downtown to Café Brittany.
Daydreaming of the menu.
Finally, we find a parking spot,
walk down the street
to the little bistro
with the smokey windows
and the red awning.
I skip walk down the street
anticipating the French feast
awaiting us.
As we enter the small,
dark restaurant,
waiters in black
with crisp white aprons
greet us with wide smiles.
“Bon jour,” they croon.
“Bon jour,” we say
in our Jersey accents.
Our family friends
are already seated
and they call us over
to a large table in the back.
It is laden with baskets of baguettes
and I run to take my seat,
quickly find the butter
and slather it over a warm slice.
The adults discuss the menu
and decide what to order:
French Onion Soup, escargot,
Duck Confit and Coq au vin,
Bouillabaisse and Boeuf Bourguignon,
Coquille Saint-Jacques and Cassoulet.
My father leans into me,
“You will try everything.”
A grand food adventurer,
I nod my head eagerly,
I will try everything.
I’m not sure of all the dishes
but I’m ready to try
all this beautiful food.
I reach for another baguette
And let the butter melt in my mouth.
Soon the appetizers come:
soups, salads, mussels,
and a sizzling platter
piled with brown shells
stuffed with parsley butter and garlic.
It smells wonderful.
My father puts two on my plate.
I take each to my lips.
I suck them down quickly.
Salty, buttery, garlicky –
a mouth full of yum.
My older sister giggles
and wrinkles her nose.
“Snails!” she hisses, laughing.
“Escargots are snails?
Well, they’re delicious!” I declare.
March 18th
March 17th
March 16th
March 15th – The Ides of March and National Peanut Day
March 14th
March 13th
March 12th
March 11th
March 10th
March 9th
March 8th
March 7th
March 6th
March 5th
March 4th
March 3rd
March 2nd
March 1st
Word Dancer: Literature, the Arts, & Education 
Joanne,
I just told my husband I wish we erected in Ireland right now, so finding your tribute to St. Patrick’s day is a real treat. I love seeing those little faces looking into the oven through your words and recall shaking cream in a jar to make butter. I love the way other’s writing reminds me of moments in my life.
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Irish soda bread-! It’s delicious! I’ll be having some tonight at an Irish restaurant. The poem is a treasure, all those little hands and hearts connected to this bread – not to mention the joy of making of the butter. I expect those young ones will remember this rich experience all of their lives.
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Oh, wow, Joanne, those memories of the Irish soda bread and homemade butter sounds amazing. I’m sure the students will have these memories with them for a lifetime. It sounds delicious and special.
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Joanne,
This ambrosia poem is my favorite so far. Not because I like ambrosia, but because I love your momma’s attitude. She chose an easy dish to make and made it because she loved it. I’m all about that kind of cooking. That ending where you all honor your mother by eating one of her favorite foods despite your dislike of it is the essence of love.
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Joanne, I’m so impressed with the French restaurant dining experience. I love that your father said, “You will try everything.” And that you were a “grand food adventurer.” This poem has helped me get to know you better through so many sweet details. Just gorgeous!
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Joanne, I love the end of your poem today. The sister giggling about the snails and your response is perfect. I also appreciate the details of the restaurant and the driver there imagining the wonderful food ahead. Lovely and fun poem.
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Today, March 20, you have me in tears as to how your Aunt encouraged you to “find” and “hear” your mom even if she was not there. Your Aunt was a wise woman even if she, like so many of her peers, was a smoker!
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Your piece about Aunt Jo is insightfully and lovingly written, tying in the love of food and the love of people. I also have a nourishing aunt. We are both blessed.
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I can feel that delicious juice running down my chin. I do love tomatoes, and your poem is a delightful celebration of a homemade meal!
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Joanne,
You turn making sauce into art. In contrast, I embrace the onomatopoeia of the popping seal on a bottle of marinara sauce. I need to do better.
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Oh, wow, your uncle knew something about those double strawberries, didn’t he? What a fascinating memory. I can see that would be something that sticks with a child. “Huge, ripe, and deep red” make my mouth water. These are the strawberries I want to eat, right now, please.
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The memories of helping Elsie can peaches is so sweet. I love the long forgotten jar of peaches tasting like summer when you discover it.
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Love that last line of tasting summer via the peaches. Lots of rich details to show us your experience!
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March 23–I love how the food and memory go hand in hand. I can feel the sunshine of joy through your words. I wonder if you’ve seen/read Crystal Wilkinson’s Praisesong for the Kitchen Ghosts. She uses recipes as the structure for exploring the legacy of women in her family. She’s a Kentucky treasure, but you don’t have to be from Kentucky to appreciate her writing.
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Thanks for your response. I haven’t heard of Crystal Wilkinson – but I will look her up. Her writing sounds very interesting and right up my alley. Thanks again!
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oh, the peaches! I am right there with you, on the wide wood planks, putting the peaches in the lemony water bath and taking in the sunshine. This is lovely, just lovely! The peaches will be ripe before we know it.
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The banana cream pie becomes a kind of double gift–a gift from you to your teacher, but also a gift from your mother. Your poem captures how she cares for you, even without words.
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One thing I have never made is a banana cream pie. I love how your mother swoops in and helps create this dish!
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I enjoyed reading about the interaction between you and your mother. Your frustration with getting the pie crust just right and her kind gesture to help you fix it, with a smile on her face. What a sweet moment and special gift, both to you from your mother and from you to your teacher.
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I’m so so sorry about your Dad. Your poetic tribute to him, with the details of the fruit, the love in his words and voice, is both simple and deep – just like the making of that fruit platter. May these memories be a blessing.
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What a wonderful tribute to your father. Your end brought tears to my eyes. I love the idea of fixing yourself your own fruit platter and the shared dialogue between you and your father. Precious poem!
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What a wonderful way to remember your father, Joanne, through these kitchen moments in good times, leading to that wonderful ending phrase: “This is love.” My thoughts and prayers are with you, my friend.
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I love mango and your description sounds scrumptious and beautiful too.
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Joanne,
I love mangoes but have never eaten mango pudding. I imagine I’d do what you and your husband did on repeat in that last stanza. 😋
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Your poems are all so lovely. I love the sensuousness of the food and the family stories tucked between the details of nourishment. Your poem “Fruit Love” particularly drew me in because I also lost my father this year. I’m impressed with the quality of writing you’re able to do just a few days later (I couldn’t get anything done for a long time after). I love that last stanza–your father’s comment, your response back, the last line, ….. all so gorgeous!
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“This is love” and the “Fruit Love” title…so precious, Joanne. My condolences on your father’s death. He lived a good long life full of love, it seems.
The mango pudding sunshine sounds delicious too.
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Oh, that meal, Joanne. The chicken smells heavenly, the bread, the salad. I felt myself tasting each beautifully described dish. And the first names of each of the people in the group really shows the intimacy of the gathering. Thank you for letting us partake through your poem.
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Joanne, your rice ode makes my mouth water. I love rice too. I remembered making risotto once. Why haven’t I made it again? I will now. I’m glad you get to have an alternative to wheat that you really do love so much.
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I’m so glad you can have rice! The last time I bought jasmine rice, I bought a huge bag. It gives me peace of mind. I have this feeling like I won’t run out of rice for the next half decade. 😂 And the last time I cooked it, I made cilantro rice with lime! I could write my own ode to “green rice.” A special treat.
I love your nourishment theme for this month.
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Joanne,
Your ode to rice reminds me of my own love of potatoes. I do eat rice and like it, depending on g in how it’s prepared. I should serve rice more. I’m inspired to look for new recipes. As long as they’re easy, I can do it, but no rice for breakfast for me!
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I remember driving through Winnemucca in 1981 on a college road trip to the west coast. We didn’t stop. We made fun of the name. We missed the pancakes and the cook/chef/pancakegenius. I love the sensory details from the car and the diner. They give such clear images of that night.
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What a sweet memory! I love every line of this and the shared smiles and fork raised to the cook is my favorite. Those strawberry pancakes sound delicious.
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I haven’t been here in a bit, Joann, so I started with that ready-to-be-roasted attentive chicken, but stopped sharply at the poem about your father. I am so sorry. What a dad! That fruit plate, his gift to you, and the words,”This is love” made me teary. I will read the rest of your nourishing poetry, but I had to write this.
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Sunday’s chicken dinner sounds peaceful and delicious. I never know how to use herbs, but I think I’m going to have to try this. You’ve made it a hundred times, I may have tried once! Never a great chicken roaster, but you make me want to try again.
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Joanne, your chicken dinner sounds so much like Cornish hens that I cook for holidays, and that my fmaily loves. I can smell the amazing aromas in your kitchen! Moreover- I am grateful for how your poems and comments nourish the soul. I am grateful for you, my friend.
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You bring back fabulous and tasty memories of Rome – – I discovered I love arrabbiata sauce. I think that’s how you spell it – – it’s spicy!
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