Saturday, February 27, 2010

Fights over Food

Our most serious fights revolve
Around food. I don’t
Mean we fight in crates of bananas
Or throw punches up with the tangerines
I mean the toughest decisions we make are daily
Ones about whether we’ll have salad or steak
Certain soups or sultry spices and who will dish
Out the time to prepare, pound and puzzle through
Independent and experimental flavors. We’ve never
Made the same thing twice. Never.

You sneak in the fat free cheeses, wheat tortillas, meat
Substitutes to keep my heart rate low and adrenaline
High. I sneak snacks: dollar donation homemade cookies,
Free samples, fast foods, all things unrefined when you aren’t
Around. A round, that’s what I’ll be. My nickname miss
Fatty McFatterson. I’m guilty. But what you don’t see…

You taste the salt and oil on my lips, the remnants of fried
The sugar of sweets, a two dollar cupcake, simple items
That won’t show up on the credit card. But you know
My mouth so well. When I water, when I satisfy, when I am
Satisfied, when my mouth has been yours from moon to moon

Nourishing begins with a handful of seeds, the choice to be planted
And though they’ve been, and are watered and whispered to
To grow, they sprout up in angles of evasiveness, roots that circle
Like belts around the obese, like hollow chambers of instruments with broken
Strings, like the unraveled wrist ties of so many skyward bound balloons

Catch me, catch me, and tie me down with the weeds that grew higher
Than our intended edibles. Force me to feed upon your flowers. Warm
Yams and green beans, dumpling droplets and creamy tortellini
All thrown in and we’ll stew in the kitchen.
Catch me, catch me, and roll me into a cellar to think on it
Until I’ve aged finely, and even then when I duck into the sock drawer
Where I’ve preserved a secret stash, you peel
Onions in front of me so that my tears flow
For reasons easily explained to across alley neighbors, current roommates
Uninvited guests. This is between me and you and the bark
And the crushed peppers. We will step on them together, squeeze out
The seeds and smear them with a wooden spoon. Our appetite will return
To the cutting board when weary of our own habits. Where we will find
An apple dripping from its red skin, painted in a layer of peanut butter
With dark ribbons curls tied down on their sticky backs

Saturday, February 20, 2010

A sketch: Cousin Carla

I spent most of my undergraduate years as a writer attempting to make really deep stories and poetry, to make sure that there were layers to what I had created, to embed meaning in everything I did. I think I mostly always failed. I'm considering to go and study creative writing again in grad school, so until then I think I'm going to give the depth and significance bull a break. That being said I apologize for all of the meaningless shit that I write on this blog over the next few months. And that being said, here's a character sketch inspired by the three animation shorts by Adam Eliot that appear in the Animation Show!

Cousin Carla

I once had a cousin named Carla.
On Sundays Mother would leave me at Carla’s house.
Carla had goldfish but I never was able to count how many.
Because Carla never wanted to watch them swim.

My mother and Carla’s mother bought houses two blocks away from each other.
But it wasn’t until I was eight that Mother took me to Carla’s for the first time.
Because she wanted me to develop my own quirks before meeting her.
Carla was two years older than me at the time.
Now she is two years younger than me.

I saw Carla most Sundays after the first time.
I liked Sundays, not because of Carla.
Because the fridge at home would be full after playing with Carla.
Carla’s fridge was always full on Sundays too.
Carla said this was because she and Aunt Gin would go to the Consumer Carousel.
Early in the morning after visiting the bleeding man on the cross.
And hugging lots of old smelly people.
By Consumer Carousel, Carla meant grocery store.
I think she called it a carousel because it was colorful and made her head spin.

During the winter her mother would give us cups of jell-o
I liked the neon green ones, but Carla always got to pick which we would make.
She would take blue, red, and green and mix them all together.
We often ate brown jell-o, which looked like jiggley dirt.
But it tasted about the same as any of the other flavors.
One day when I came over, Carla told me to go to the bathroom with her.
On the toilet bowl she had put a ring of tinfoil cupcake holders.
In each holder was a different color jell-o.
And in each cupcake ridged jell-o mold was each of her goldfish.
I knew then she had seven goldfish.
I always wondered how she got the jell-o to cool before Aunt Gin found out.

On summer Sundays, Aunt Gin would give us ice cream.
I liked strawberry flavor, but they only bought spumoni flavor.
This was Carla’s favorite, but she called it plain.
I liked to eat spumoni off of a big wooden spoon.
Carla liked to eat it off of her big forehead.
She would put her scoop up there on her crown and let it drip.
She would catch the drops as they fell.
I would make brain freeze jokes every time.
But she never laughed. No one did.

One Monday, Mother took me to Carla’s house but I was not allowed to see her.
Mother did not leave to fill up the fridge like she usually did.
I was not given a treat even though Carla’s fridge was full too.
Mother didn’t take me to Carla’s house after that anymore.
Later, I found a picture of Carla on the internet.
She was lying down in an inflatable kiddie pool full of brown jell-o.
I always wonder how many jell-o packets it took to do this.
But Mother said that I was forbidden to ever bring it up to Aunt Gin.
It’s just not polite.

I am glad that I do not have to eat spumoni ice cream anymore.
Sometimes Aunt Gin comes over and even brings vanilla for me.
But I do miss making jokes about Carla getting a brain feeze.
Sometimes I still make the joke, but there is no one to laugh.
I pretend sometimes that the silence is Carla’s echo traveling from a Consumer Carousel.
Where she sits atop an impaled metal seahorse spinning at just her speed.

Friday, February 12, 2010

The Cuberator

The only shapes I manage in my kitchen couldn't be nicer
Than the three-dimensional squares that pop out of my dicer
Cubed peppers, cubed onions, cubed carrots, tomato
Cubed bamboo shoots, shallots, and bits of taro
Compacted cube raisins, awkwardly chopped walnuts
Cherry pits cubed out centers, last second spice cuts
Don't take my square Sundays out of week's line
But I beg for a shapely out of house dine

Suggested Coffee

Suggested Coffee
-Collaboration piece by Calvillo, Mayrina, and Stuster

Sunlight is only a suggestion
And your fingers at four in the morning
Taste bitter like the end of orange peels
As they slip through my hair
And cut through the dream
That spelt the permanency of this placement

Caffeinated dreams look good at four in the morning.
But come sunset they have the bitter after taste
Of orange peels. The bed is no longer safe.
We will spill into it anyways. And peel
Into sheets and pillow cases.
Spiral sliced rinds will trace other skins.

All at Once

Thick filet mignon
Seared exterior and tender fleshy center
Beamaise sauce dripping down the side
Accompanied by the hint of rosemary
Red Peppers and cherry truss tomatoes

Regret forms where the unlimited
Loaf of garlic bread and Caesar salad fell
My best friend warned
Not to take home leftovers on a first date
"You'll look starved and desperate"
I suppose this means I must force myself
To enjoy this feast in one seating

Thursday, February 11, 2010

La Sirene

La Siréne

The dessert cart floats around tables, and I avert
my eyes knowing that if I see each tart and puff and almond flake before
my mind's made up, I’ll want every item with its corresponding cream
and drizzle! I must
set limits. Hence I decide to refuse any treat that isn't a white powder
topped Swiss Alp emulating champagne truffle.
That in mind I peruse the tiers of temptation,
allow the crème brûlée flambée and raspberry mousse cake escape
their display case to rest upon my plate, and insist to my date
that he share a “portion” of his dish with me. Which dessert was his
to begin with, he’ll never know.