Diane Klammer
From the right tribe at the right time, serving qahwa
with the correct hand, the freshest juice from the ripest
fruit, the smallest petit fours in the city to guests
who will speak of my poise to their brothers or sons.
Majda Gama Sexton Nights
If I reach purgatory, let my penance be cooking,
more century nights of putting meals on a table.
May I earn heaven after years of necessary art,
tears from aromatics: shallot, garlic, onions pearl.
Way to a man's heart is through stomach from tongue,
I was told right before women started burning their bras.
But so many times I longed just to sit to savor my food
converse heatedly, with a glass of red Zin and a cigar,
or play guitar and sing with full regalia and awe,
from the right tribe at the right time, serving gahwa.
How could any family know or guess the time, love
trouble, precision it took to make Coq au Vin,
Forget strange French dishes—just serve grilled cheese.
said my children back then, of over-the-top cuisine,
my husband, tired from work, would saunter in late,
all dinner had to be reheated. I wanted no gripe-fest.
It took persuasion to weave them to the table together
cajoling with beef stroganoff, wine served decanted
with the correct hand, the freshest juice from the ripest
berries, pies, boysenberries we picked ourselves
from a lush garden down the street in Santa Maria.
Holidays were a major production. I perfected tur-
key with help, made a stuffing of fancy rice, nuts
and bread my dad invented with Spam, cranberry,
five squash soup to dad’s delight, garnished with zest.
Christmas meant cookies, platters of them, as both
sides of the family showed up hungry. I was oak strong
honored, but tired after ham, beef, Yorkshire pudding,
fruit, the smallest petit fours in the city to guests.
Never hearing of cooks or housekeepers for us, until
I visited Brazil, three glorious weeks without once
setting foot in any kitchen, I learned of bourgeoise
ways of living without all the drudgery. My cousins
teased about my accent, my workworn hands. Pride
in my upbringing, I argued, cooking was fun, useful,
or I told myself, not having chosen to run, be a nun,
a band musician, a lady about town, or remain single.
I did not contradict or disappear from those who
would speak of my poise to their brothers or sons.
Diane Klammer is a disabled writer, singer-songwriter, retired therapist, and biology teacher. Her work has appeared in the United States and Canada, England, Scotland, Wales, and Australia. She has appeared in Lummox, Avocet, Open Earth Eco Poems, Rattle, Spaces, and elsewhere, forthcoming in Syncopation Review and Blank Slate Review. She strives to write from a place of humor and compassion and is grateful for diverse voices of poetry in books music and film.
