Today, I could stand it no longer. I raced to the grocery store in the rain. You see, over the past couple of weeks I read two very different literary works that had me hungering to purchase specific food items. For what purpose? Photography followed by consumption. First I read Elizabeth Langosy’s article, A.S. Byatt’s Plums. In a nutshell, the article explores the challenge for writers in conveying sensory experiences to the reader. It is a powerful read accompanied by visually striking images of plums that have yet to leave my mind. I couldn’t find them in the store today, but thankfully I did find green beans. You see, I had also read Mary Oliver’s poem, Beans.
In Oliver’s same book, she writes of walking through blueberry fields and of gathering honeyed blossoms with crispy seeds. But in the grocery store, the blueberries did not jump into my basket nor did bottles of bright gold honey. I did buy one red pepper and a bit of garlic to stir fry with the green beans.
After one last look for plums, I found an asian pear on sale. FYI, later at home, after a bit of slicing and dicing, that made a tasty snack!
I also found sitting alone at the bottom of a shallow basket, a passion fruit. In my literary frame of mind, I was instantly reminded of the women’s travel magazine called Passion Fruit that I had found very inspiring when I first dabbled at travel writing. I bought it and, once home, immediately sliced into it.
I have since learned that I probably should not have sliced it open just yet, but there is a part of me that is not sorry to see such pale beauty.
In a small frying pan, heat olive oil and butter. When hot, press the potato-radish mixture into the pan.
Around Christmas, my mother used to invite the gentleman across the street over for dinner. We called him Mr. Joe Boy. He was mentally challenged but living independently with the support of family. My mom would assemble a plate of food so that he could eat in the living room, and the rest of us could hang out in the kitchen. She then left Joe Boy to my dad. My dad was more a people-person than my mom. He would make small talk with Joe Boy. The two of them would watch westerns or whatever was on television. Sometimes Joe Boy would nod off in his chair and we kids would sigh wondering when he was going home. My mother would frown at us but we knew she was thinking the same thing. Eventually my dad would nudge him awake and see him to the door. Over many Christmas holidays that same act would be repeated. Not because this man was starving for food or asking for anything. We did it because my mom felt it was the right thing to do, to be neighborly to this man who spent most of his time alone. It is a trait that I admire in Steve who practices a similar ethos around food and dining. Food is on my mind today because I finally stopped turning away from the pictures coming out of Somalia and East Africa. Most disturbing are the pictures of the skeletal children.
Words + Images 