The Occasioned Meal
It wasn’t that I was in from way out of town,
(– A thousand miles? It’s nice you could come visit.)
Or that we sat around a too crowded kitchen table,
generations: Grandmother, second cousin, thirds,
tearing up to recall men gone long, all. A first.
Or that it would be the last I witnessed
Mary Nell or Willie Faye in dressy street clothes
instead of the zippered housecoats
preferred by those who can’t button
or who reside in the same pale mode daily
no matter who might come to call, anymore,
when they do. It wasn’t the cornbread dressing
renowned, if a tad underdone. Or the black-eyed
peas, a treasure with snaps and floating fatty bacon,
this year’s harvest pulled from the deep
freeze. Or peach cobbler (sheltered prize, the festival
is in August, always the first weekend — You know
Bobby Gail’s daughter was up for princess, this time),
or native pecan pie ( — You know, the worms let them alone
this year and Ruth was able to collect bags of them
with the girls and sold them to fund that cheerleaders’
camp? Lord, what she does for those girls, carrying
on.) No. It was the giblet gravy that did me in, thin.
Filled with floating bits of organ meat that told of broken
hearts and filtered stories and guileless love.
* * *
Written for this week’s Read Write Poem prompt, about the occasions of food, the associations. Read more poems in response to the prompt here, and check back often this week, for it is a special holiday weekend, and people might be a little distracted by “making” more than “recollecting,” so might take a while to post.
Editorial comment: I wrote the prompt. And I had a Hard Time writing to it. Hmmm. Too much to work with, I suspect. Way. Too. Much. Might be a good series to look at.
Related posts:
Oh, the setting, the stories (dialogue) clustered around the foods and the organ parts gravy … gave the reader much to chew on. The ending is simply wonderful. I like the tad underdone quality of this.
Thank you, Irene.
This is a little sad but very real with reference to those who are
destined for the zippered housecoats day in and day out, the trivial chit chat and the decline illustrated in the renowned dressing underdone and the thin giblet gravy.An excellent poem
Thank you, Ralentanda. I hoped the sadness would cast a bit of a shadow.
Hi Deb,
This is a lovely, warm snapshot tinged, as Rallentanda says, with a hint of sadness. I love giblet gravy! As the years pass it all becomes a little harder to do.
Thank you, Derrick. Giblet gravy is one of those either-you-love-it-or-hate-it foods.
I actually despise it, but was happy to have the bit of time with these fine ladies. :-)
I like this an awful lot: the litany of things it wasn’t (especially the zippered housecoats detail, oh my) and then the surprise of “It was the giblet gravy that did me in, thin.”
Thank you, Rachel.
I like all the characters in this and sense of connection, mixed with food!
Thanks, Sarah!
Your poem is great in the way it blends the food and the memories. Reading through reminded me of giblet gravy, with textures and little giblets floating around… the memory of “Bobby Gail’s daughter” out of the blue. I enjoyed the gray experience Deb!
Thank you for sharing! =D
Thanks Linda, and glad the extra floating bits didn’t take away, too much.
Love all the descriptive elements… and it made me realize I left the prompt out of my poem because I didn’t enjoy its creation. Oops. Need to go back… (thanks for the reminder and for the poem!)
You did so well with your poem, Julie. It’s beautiful. Shows the how pain can hone our words.
The detail in this works so well. I love that the black-eyes are from the freezer. That one caught me–oh, yes, they were, weren’t they.
The cadences of the speech are so perfectly different from your voice, and capture just enough of the flavor.
I think you’ve caught the other side of the festive meals, the ritual food. Each dish stands for all of its kind, and each person represents all of (her) kind.
Oh, thank you, Barbara. I was hoping to do even just a bit of that.
I don’t find it prosy at all: it flows well, it’s full of emotions, it brings so much back to me…
oh, 1000 miles is not that far, try 6000 and an ocean
Good perspective, Ana, on distance, though these are kin for whom moving from Texas to Arizona and back was momentous. =)
I love the way this integrates the family dynamics of the women with the special circumstances and delicacies of the meal. The poem is patient with its metaphors, waiting until the ending to make the connections visual and explicit, which maximizes its power.
I’m glad that last unwinding was okay for you. I was afraid it was too explicit.
So very good…it left me feeling as though I was there, listening to the conversations, experiencing each bit along with you. I very much enjoyed this!
Thanks, Cynthia … did you pretend to eat any of it? :-)
So much of ourselves goes into the food we make – which is why I really like that you took that metaphor and made your “gravy”. I’m also in love with the image of the aunts in their housecoats.
It’s a powerful image, those dear old ladies in their housecoats. Thanks!
love the mixture of food and family embodied in this poem. you always puts bits of yourself into whatever you’re writing. enjoyed the read. have a great day/ weekend.
I should try some fiction, but it is a little beyond my skills. Thanks for the wishes.
I especially like the dialogue in this, how you capture the cadence of voices. And the giblet ending is superb (I also hate giblets, so that part hit me in a very visceral way).
I love the way this poem runs through the sequence of what it wasn’t about, each a precious detail in its own right. But it was thin giblet gravy that held the meaningful, poignant details of this family gathering. Nicely done.
I love the prosey-bits floating in and interrupting, just like real life around the kitchen table. and just like real life: the sadness underlying it all.
beautifully done.
The voices are very warm and natural and interrupted thoughts- just like a family conversation. It sounds like you’re not quite sure if you like it – I think it works.