The Best American Poetry

Costco & Cocktails {Loren Goodman}

SEOUL, Korea -- October 22 & 23

As breath of Autumn's being bathes Seoul in hectic red, young men's fancies turn to... Costco!

Colleague Kelly Walsh and I discuss the possibility of a Costco run several days in advance. After a lunch meeting on entrance admissions and interview procedures Thursday afternoon, we tentatively agree to embark on a shopping adventure the following day. Upon answering his call Friday morning, we again discuss the benefits and detriments of a Coscto shopping spree. After a brief silence, my ear meets with a statement of indubitable gravity: "I'm running low on cheese." All doubt eliminated, I set out to Jongo to meet Kelly in his taxi bound for Sangbong, the location of the nearest Costco (there are at least three in Seoul).  

The rendezvous point: Jongno 4-ga

This is where I wait for Kelly's taxi. As I wait, I see the following sign:

 

Pondering the moment of my chance encounter with this quaint shop, its window display seems a portent: is not every moment of our lives consumed with time?

I try to discern Kelly's form in the many taxis that pass. Little do I know, at this time he is approaching the Han River, far in the opposite direction. With little knowledge of the city and even less command of the language, after two years I still find it difficult to get around; Kelly has been here less than two months. 

 

 

Once there, it is as if the entire staff recognizes the ardors of our journey, and welcomes us accordingly. While Kelly gets his papers in order, I take the opportunity to sanitize my cart handle.

Costco: Plaisir et jouissance 

Much Depends on Dinner: Cooking with Grace Cavalieri

With this post we inaugurate a new series to showcase poets who cook.  We're delighted that Grace Cavalieri agreed to be our first contributor. Grace founded and  produces "The Poet and the Poem," now recorded at the Library of Congress for public radio. Her series celebrates its 32nd consecutive year on-air.  Grace and co-author Sabine Pascarelli have just published The Poet's Cookbook, with photographs by Dan Murano (A Solitary Moment).  The Poet's Cookbook includes full menus with more than 75 recipes for Antipasti, Minestre, Primi Piatti , Secondi Piatti, Verdure, Insalate, and Dolci.

Here's what Grace has to say about today's recipe:

Pomodori Ripieni is something my mother used to make. She even made this for my lunch when I came home from school. In the first part of the 20th century, there were no lunch rooms and cafeterias, no "Subway" or sandwich shops. Children walked home from school and back in one short hour. Nettie made Pomodori for me on toast. I guess that was our version of an open-face sandwich. 　Nettie's family　came from Sicily and my father, Angelo, who was truly a great chef, came from near Venice. If there were a class war between regions of Italy, it was never in the kitchen. This is the place that always smelled wonderful.

Dan Murano arranged these tomatoes beautifully in the pan. Mine are not always as symmetrical.

Stewed Tomatoes – Pomodori Ripieni

• 8 Fresh tomatoes
• 2 Cloves Garlic
• ½ cup of mixed herbs (parsley, basil and garlic ground together)
• 1/8 lb butter
• Salt and pepper
• 1 T olive oil

Cut tomatoes across in half. Scoop out seeds. Lay first layer in large pan. In place of seeds add the herb mixture and a dot of butter in each pocket. Place another layer of tomatoes on top. Drizzle with olive oil. Put ¼ cup water in bottom of pan, cover and cook on low for 45 minutes. Serves 4-6.

All photos by Dan Murano

Take My Mother-in-Law Sandwich . . . Please: Putting on the Feedbag in Chicago [by Jamie Katz]

        photo by Peter Pawinski

 The people of Chicago, that stormy, husky, brawling kind of town, sure know how to tie on the feed bag. Has any other American city patented so many signature foods? There's deep-dish pizza, smoky Polish sausages, Italian beef sandwiches au jus, and, of course, the classic Chicago-style hot dog: pure Vienna Beef on a warm poppy-seed bun with mustard, relish, pickled peppers, onions, tomato slices, a quartered dill pickle and a dash of celery salt. Alter the formula (or ask for ketchup) and you can head right back to Coney Island, pal. For       better or worse, it was Chicago that transformed the Midwest's vast bounty of grains, livestock and dairy foods into Kraft cheese, Cracker Jack and Oscar Mayer wieners. And in recent years, emerging from its role as chuck wagon to the masses, Chicago finally bulled its way into the hallowed precincts of haute cuisine, led by renowned chefs Charlie Trotter, Rick Bayless and Grant Achatz, who's one of the forerunners of a movement known as molecular gastronomy. "They hate the term, but that's how people refer to it," says Mike Sula, a food columnist for the weekly Chicago Reader. "They like to call it 'techno-emotional cuisine.'" But does it taste good? "Oh yeah," he says.

Read more . . .

Some Kind of Sublime: Late August in New Orleans [by Kathleen Heil]

Some Kind of Sublime: a Madri Gras Indian Summer
-- a domestic dispatch from our Madrid correspondent Kathleen Heil

It's noon on a Thursday, two days before the fourth anniversary of the day the levees broke here in New Orleans, and the weather is all kinds of lovely -- only 84 degrees and 50 percent humidity, springtime of a certain kind for August in Louisiana. It means I can sit outside as I type, enjoy the breeze, tolerate the mosquitoes, and wish I had a sno-ball in my hands. [Photo credit: Corinne Keller].

Last night Leah Chase handed me the best bowl of gumbo z'herbs I'd ever tasted, best because it was dirty with spices, when so many gumbo z'herbs (like certain men?) are pretty but bland.  The bowl is part of a six-pot gumbo-for-all and book signing to kickoff the One Book, One New Orleans 2009 selection: Gumbo Tales by Sara Roahen. I wait in a long line for her to sign my book, then realize I am standing in the wrong line, these people are waiting to buy alcohol. Iin New Orleans the first order of business is always booze, even in Latter Library, but I already have my drink, so I go for the gumbo, which runs out quickly, and then the book signing; books being books, they never run out).  I get in the shorter line, which is still long enough that it snakes around the room.  As I wait I drink wine and eat cake and chat with New Orleans ladies who talk that lovely way New Orleans ladies do, loud and loose, like they got lost somewhere between Long Island and Boston had a drink and came home.  I ask the author annoying questions. Is being selected for One Book better than being singled out by Oprah? Does she have a favorite NOLA food? (Answers: a laugh and gumbo.)  I explain that although I am from here I can't seem to find my way home. I have to go back to Madrid. She smiles and signs my book lucky gal.

Later that night I walk by a Lucky Dog cart and into the Royal Sonesta Hotel for a benefit organized by Irvin Mayfield featuring the Afro-Cuban rhythms of Los Hombres Calientes. (Though some of Mayfield's session musicians are here, the other Hot Boy, Bill Summers, is not). Irvin sings and plays the trumpet and shekere with his whole body; he is joined by Ron Markham on the piano, Leon "Kid Chocolate" Brown on trumpet, tambourine, clave, and shekere, David Kalfus on bass, Michael Watson on slide trombone, Jamal Batiste on drums, and Luis Quintero playing the congas and cowbell with devotion-inspiring fierceness. Perhaps that's why there is a priest sitting in the VIP section -- the very priest that kicks my mother and me out of the VIP section, which doesn't seem very Christian of him.

These hombres start out playing some traditional Cuban rhythms, slide into a cool riff of Summertime and then back into the Latin jazz, closing the set with some traditional Mardi Gras Indian music. New Orleans is a city built upon so many contradictions they sometimes contain, koan like, their own (kind of) solution. I am transported by these rhythms but also saddened by the sublimity of the music, because I know I cannot suspend the moment any longer than the moment allows: this jazz set, like all jazz sets, must end.

So I raised my mojito high, I sang along when Irvin asked us to, I danced the funky butt to Iko Iko and flew my napkin flag, I prayed for my city the only way I knew how.

(Note: Irvin Mayfield's Love Sessions run through Sunday, August 29 and each night all ticket proceeds benefit a different charity.  Click here for more information and and a downloadable podcast of the August 26 set; here for information on One Book, One New Orleans and here for more about Gumbo Tales author Sara Roahen.)

This Little Piggy Went To Market [by Stacey Harwood]

Last week I went to the Union Square Greenmarket with the chief produce buyer for the Gramercy Tavern, a fantastic restaurant on 20th Street near 5th Avenue.  I have to say, it was among the best experiences I've ever had!  Here's the post and slide show I did for Time Out New York.  What a blast!

-- sdh

This Week's Critic's Pick

Gusto aperitivo.  Check it out if you're in NYC.

-- sdh

A Tale of Two Kitchens, Or How We Met [by Stacey Harwood]

With one day remaining on Phoebe Putnam’s visit here, I want to tell the story of how she came to be a guest blogger.  Most of our guests come to us through rather conventional means – either we’ve known them from our circle of writing friends and acquaintances or we get to know them because they become engaged with the blog and we begin a correspondence that leads to a guest blogging stint.  Phoebe took an entirely different route and I bet that nobody would guess it so here goes:

   Shortly after I found my first NYC apartment roughly ten years ago, I became obsessed with making the most of a tiny space, especially the kitchen, because I love to cook.  My obsession led me to Apartment Therapy, a design blog with a mission to help people turn their living spaces into homes, with an emphasis on real homes, not the kind found in glossy shelter magazines.  The blog appealed to me, more so when it initiated a series of contests that invited readers to send pictures of their apartments.  I entered the first “I Love My Kitchen” contest (under my screen name, Shoshana) with a picture of the kitchen in my 200 square-foot studio apartment (I did not win, place, or show).

   In 2007 AT sponsored a “Small, Cool” kitchen contest and Phoebe’s kitchen took first prize.  That's her kitchen pictured above.

   Fast forward:  David and I, after searching off and on for several years, finally land our first NYC apartment. The only draw back?  No kitchen (see right). I still had Phoebe’s kitchen in mind so I e-mailed her for advice.  How big was her kitchen? (Ours is roughly 5’ x 8’).  I wondered if we could re-do our kitchen to look something like hers, which I admired greatly.  Phoebe responded from the Boston area and at the same time put me in touch with her architect dad, who had helped her with her kitchen redesign.  Po Putnam and I corresponded for a bit and I was won over by his ideas, his enthusiasm for the project of designing our kitchen, and his willingness to work from afar.  During the course of our correspondence, I learned that Phoebe was at Harvard, is passionate about poetry, and that we have much in common.  Thus, when David and I started this blog last year, Phoebe seemed like a natural guest blogger.  And she is, isn’t she?  We’re hoping she’ll return. 

    Here's a picture of our kitchen today, as designed by Joseph Henry "Po" Putnam and built by Tony Sapp of Three Pillars.  I love it! Click through for a few more:  

Nuts! Nocino Part II [by Stacey Harwood]

 So David calls me last week to tell me he's scored some green walnuts from our favorite potato guy at the Ithaca Farmers Market.  This is good news because I'm about to leave for New Jersey, to visit my mom, and while the 190 proof grain alcohol needed for authentic nocino is illegal in New York State, our neighbors to the south are not so unenlightened.  While driving around the lovely garden state, my mom and I pass Joe Canal's Discount Liquor in Egg Harbor Township.  It's just the kind of place where one will find Everclear (left), which sounds like something you would put in your car, and will, as one from parent's generation would say, "put hair on your chest."
   David rolls into town on Thursday with a neatly wrapped bundle of the green walnuts stowed in cooler as if it was an organ about to be rushed cross-country for a transplant.  They're smaller than the ones Laura Orem sent, and a little softer.  I quickly cut them and mixed them with sugar and a couple of days later added the booze and aromatics.  Now we wait: 

Nocino Part I [by Stacey Harwood]

For the next several months, I’m going to document the progress of my first attempt to make nocino, the Italian liqueur made from underripe (green) walnuts.  I first tasted nocino in 2006, when David and I were guests at the Civitella Raniere Foundation in Umbria, Italy.  Following dinner one night our host placed a bottle of his homemade nocino on the table(left).  After my first sip, I was hooked.  Nocino is dark and syrupy, spicy and sweet, with a warming bitterness on the way down,  everything one wants in a digestif.  Giancarlo told me he would be making more on the following day, for imbibing the following summer, and invited me to help. 

According to tradition, the nuts for nocino must be picked on the first day of The Feast of St. John the Baptiste.   Beyond that, there are as many recipes for nocino as there are villages in which it is made.  Giancarlo’s version includes the walnuts plus cinnamon, cloves, lemon slices, sugar, and 190 Proof grain alcohol.   He combines everything in a wide-mouth jar and places it in the sun to steep for forty days, the time necessary for the alcohol to extract the oils from the nuts.   At this point, he removes the solids,  adjusts the flavor with white wine,  puts the liquid in bottles and lets it age for roughly a year.

Once I witnessed how easy it is to make nocino I grew determined to brew my own upon my return to the states.  The difficulty?  Finding the walnuts and the 190 proof alcohol, which, alas, is illegal in New York State.   Three years go by.  Enter Laura Orem, our Red Lion, PA correspondent.   She could send me walnuts from her neighbor’s tree!  Last Wednesday, the walnuts arrived in a neat package.  Hooray for Laura! 

As for the alcohol, I would have to be satisfied with 160 Proof, which I can buy at my local liquor shop.

In anticipating the walnuts’ arrival, I searched for a recipe.  I soon located what claims to be the “official” nocino recipe – in Italian.  Enter Moira Egan, our Rome correspondent.  I signaled an electronic  SOS and within 24 hours she and her husband Damiano replied with a translation that you can read here.  Grazie tanto Moira and Damiano!

With all of the ingredients assembled, my experiment begins:

m-m-m-m-m-Mortadella! (by Sally Ashton)

Apologies: the following post may contain information repugnant to Orthodox or vegetarian readers.*

Comments received after my Not Blogging from Bologna post showed appreciation for porticoes and curiosity about the connection of Bologna to the American lunchmeat made popular by lil' Oscar and his wiener whistle. This is my kind of crowd. Let porticoes speak for themselves all arched and redundant; I'll speak for Mortadella di Bologna.

The city of Bologna is part of the Emilia-Rogmagna region of Italy that consists of such cities as Parma, Reggio nell' Emilia, Modena...anything ringing a bell here? Food! Yes food such as Parmesan, Prosciutto di Parma, Aceto Balsamico di Modena, Reggiano. Emilia-Romagna boasts a distinctive food heritage, as each region of Italy does. Kind of like New York bagels and San Francisco sourdough bread. Kind of, except Italian recipes and traditions stretch back to medieval times and are rooted in families, kingdoms and politics. Their sense of regional pride runs deep and fierce.

Bologna lies in the middle of the region. It is revered as both the center of learning, "La Dotta," as I mentioned in the earlier post, and as Fat City. Well actually it's referred to as "La Grassa," a term which means The Plentiful or more commonly, The Fat: city of good eats. There are historical and geographical reasons for this, but go read your own travel book for that. Suffice to say, if you controlled the Emilia-Romagna, you could feed a Roman legion and rule the known world.

Let me also clarify: the modern Bolognese people eat fat but they aren't fat. Not that I could see.

So this is Mortadella di Bologna, although it could be sliced thinner. At least that's how it was served to me. The look of fat squares, let's call them lardon, gave me pause, but once I tried it as one does in Rome...oh my. It's made of finely ground pork seasoned with peppercorns, shelled pistachios, wine, coriander and anise. The recipe follows strict guidelines in order to be called Mortadella di Bologna. One is a 7 to 3 ratio of pork to fat. Ideally, the meat is sliced to order, never more than you'd use for a meal. The Italians are quick to point out that compared to the pre-sliced, packaged, over-processed stuff we're used to, their product is a health food. Amen!

The last thing I will note is how to eat it. Mortadella slices are usually served on platter. Take a bakery-made breadstick and wind a slice around the end the way you might wrap spaghetti around a fork. A Mortadella lollipop! Also works well with prosciutto. Of course this will go into a poem...

And for my vegetarian friends, Bologna is the home of Tortellini! But don't get me started.

-Sally Ashton