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Poem
Madeline Cantor
About eight years ago I choreographed
a dance on the unlikely subject of food. I called it "Queen
Garlic" and dedicated it to my mother on the occasion of her 80th birthday.
The whole thing started with a dance done to a poem I wrote. The
poem was about food as celebration, food as pleasure, food as connection, food
as a metaphor for many of the good things in life. I had my mother clearly
in mind when I wrote it, and here it is.
Cinnamon Toast
Well, there’s cinnamon toast,
And then there’s Daddy Toast,
which is cinnamon toast that goes under the broiler
Just till the sugar bubbles.
There’s English muffins with their nooks and crannies,
hills and valleys,
covered with cream cheese and scallions
And a little of last night’s wilted salad.
What about grilled cheese cut corner to corner
With some of its sharp cheddar innards oozing out
Or an orange that practically jumps out of its skin
With a burst of sharp tang.
And pasta with pesto, and pesto with pasta,
And pasta with pesto, and pesto with pasta,
just before 12, night after night after night
Or a cherry tomato in August that is so sweet
It can’t decide if it’s a fruit or a vegetable or a dessert.
And rice, oh rice,
Steamed pure
Or sautéed with some friends
Or all dressed up for the evening.
And then there’s my mother’s sweet and sour cabbage soup
And cucumber salad
And roasted peppers
And pencil-thin asparagus…
All hail Queen Garlic and her consort King Onion
And their savory children and grandchildren.
Let us celebrate the potato in all its mutable glory,
Prince of adaptation, gracious host to salt.
And a big bowl of multi-hued lettuce,
None of it iceberg,
With radish dimes hidden in it
Glistening with vinaigrette.
Oh the sticky pleasures of baklava
And the oily delights of dim sum
And the satin pillowcases of perogies
How will I live long enough to eat it all?
Let’s get to work.
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