TastyDesign

Poema: "Tio Juancho", por Ruben Villalobos

To read this poem in English visit Nebur's World

Tio Juancho

(por Ruben Villalobos, traducido al Español por Marianne Villalobos)

Cánteme, tío,

enseñeme las canciones de los pájaros

que nunca he visto volar,

enséñeme las canciones que ya no puedo recordar.

 

Dígame, tío,

como me dijo cuando le pregunté hace tantos años:

¿por qué duermen algunas plantas al tocarlas?

¿por qué dan algunas hierbas una leche calmante

que puedo untarme a la piel

para aliviar las picadas de los mosquitos

que en todo caso a Ud. no le molestan?

¿Por qué al cortar el tallo del banano

el mismo crece al instante delante mis ojos?

Y ¿por qué crecen unos guineos pequeños, marrones y dulces

mientras otros crecen grandes y no tan dulces

pero ricos, cuando Mamacita o

Yaya o Mercedes

(pero nunca un hombre)

los fríe y les echa sal?

 

Dígame tio,

¿cómo puede hacer cocada todo el día

(todos estos años),

romper la cáscara del coco

con un solo machetazo y

darme el dulce limo mantecoso del coco

que resbala por mi lengua

(todos estos años)

rallar el coco, mezclar la miel

sobre el fuego candente

que cuece la cocada y le quema a Ud.

(todos estos años),

embolar la cocada aun caliente

y dajarla enfriar mientrars qu Ud. limpia la paila

y el batidor

y el machete

para que estén listos para la próxima vez,

entonces llamarme para que pruebe el dulce recien hecho

¡Rubén, vén acá!

A Poem: "A Lost Art" by John N. Hilliard

This poem is a tribute to the long gone culinary art that has vanished from our cultures. This is a cry that was written around 1910, I am not sure the exact date, but it is just beautiful. I would do more research in the future to find out the exact dates and location of the author when he wrote it. No doubt this is a n important piece in culinary history. Immigrants from Europe mostly felt frustrated about the food prepared in the US at the time.

A Lost Art (by John N. Hilliard)

Ah! the culinary art - faith! has it fled
With the dead?
Do the monarchs of the modern kitchen know
How to broil or roast or fry,
Make a soufflé or a pie,
Like the ancients did?
Well, I answer, "No!"

For the people of the present, young and old,
Live for gold,
And they have no leisure sooth in which to eat;
See them scorching home on wheels,
Thirty minutes grace for meals,
Or they walk their soles and heels
Off their feet.

Read the golden "ads" in cars and magazines
Of baked beans,
And of banquets concentrated in a can;
Read of food prepared in flakes,
And of patent flour cakes,
Good for all the ills and aches
In a man.

´Tis a wondrous age, I grant, an age of steam,
And supreme;
´Tis and age of wonders wrought in steel and stone;
´Tis an age Time can not pace,
When our thoughts with lightning race,
And our words are tossed through space
To each zone.

But we have no chefs, today, of any fame
Like Careme,
Like Chatillon, a Vatel or a Ude;
We fry beef stakes in a pan,
Which is bad for the beast or man,
And we breakfast on a plan
Just as rude.

So the culinary art, I think, has fled
With the dead,
With the ancient recipe for Massic wine;
Ah! I would I had the pen
Of a Savarin, for then
I would teach all kinds of men
How to dine.

Tags: poem, poetry, cookingdiva, culinary art, panama, chef

A Thanksgiving Poem: "As Yellow as Gold"

I admire poets. I love how they dance with the words: an insatiable and idyllic romance that goes on and on forever. After they are gone, they do not really are: they remain alive in their poems and the dance with words continues. Lets keep dancing. Lets read. Lets write more and better every day.

This beautiful poem I am featuring today was written by Mary E. Knowlton and published in 1904.

As Yellow as Gold

Here is a pumpkin, fluted, golden,
Written o'er with customs olden
Out of bygone days.
Cinderella's ancient glory,
Sung in song and told in story,
Suits its yellow blaze.

Tables at the first Thanksgiving,
When colonial dames where living,
Shewed its golden sheer.
Still it smiles a friendly greeting
At the happy family meeting
On the feast-day dear

Christmas rooms are gay with holly,
Christmas sees the merry folly
of the mistletoe.
Easter lilies, pure and stately,
In the springtime bloom sedately,
When soft breezes blow.

Autumn dressed the woods in splendor;
But their colors, rich and tender,
All have passed away.
Now the pumpkin, ripe and mellow,
Keeps a tint of Autumn's yellow
For Thanksgiving Day.

Tags: poem, poetry, cookingdiva, thanksgiving, panama, pumpkin

"The Forgotten"

by Arthur W. Peach (December 1913)

Can you remember
In December
How sweet the roses were in June,
Or, in recalling,
Hear, enthralling,
As of old some long loved tune?

Time takes forever
And gives back never
From vales of silence in the past;
Some moments clearer,
Seldom dearer,
Alone she keeps and makes them last.

Some friendships olden,
Love hour golden----
These she holds, but others die;
And when we wonder,
' Tis to ponder
Why others loved must pass us by.

Such is the measure
Of time's pleassure,
To take, and why we never know;
Vain is our seeking
Or bespeaking---
Too far the Land of Long Ago!

In the beginning-the eternal battle

Greetings from Panama! after receiving this poem from a friend a few days ago I thought it is so true and funny at the same time, that I have to share it with you.

Although I do not know the name of the author, I will give him/her full credit for it :)

Enjoy!

In the beginning, God created the Heavens and the
Earth and populated the Earth with broccoli,
cauliflower, and spinach, green and yellow and red
vegetables of all kinds, so Man and Woman would
live long and healthy lives.

Then, using God's great gifts, Satan created Ben and
Jerry's Ice Cream and Krispy Kreme Donuts. And Satan
said, "You want chocolate with that?"

And Man said, "Yes!" and Woman said, "and as long as
you're at it, add some sprinkles." And they gained 10
pounds. And Satan smiled.

And God created the healthful yogurt that Woman might
keep the figure that Man found so fair. And Satan
brought forth white flour from the wheat, and sugar
from the cane and combined them. And Woman went from
size 6 to size 14.

So God said, "Try my fresh green salad." And Satan
presented Thousand-Island dressing, buttery croutons
and garlic toast on the side. And Man and Woman
unfastened their belts following the repast.

God then said, "I have sent you heart-healthy
vegetables and olive oil in which to cook them." And
Satan brought forth deep-fried fish and chicken-fried
steak so big it needed its own platter. And Man
gained more weight and his cholesterol went through
the roof.

God then created a light, fluffy white cake, named it
"Angel Food Cake," and said, "It is good." Satan then
created chocolate cake and named it "Devil's Food."

God then brought forth running shoes so that His
children might lose those extra pounds. And Satan gave
cable TV with a remote control so Man would not have
to toil changing the channels. And Man and Woman
laughed and cried before the flickering blue light and
gained pounds.

Then God brought forth the potato, naturally low in
fat and brimming with nutrition. And Satan peeled off
the healthful skin and sliced the starchy center into
chips and deep-fried them. And Man gained pounds.

God then gave lean beef so that Man might consume
fewer  calories and still satisfy his appetite. And Satan
created McDonald's and its $ .99 double cheeseburger.
Then said, "You want fries with that?" And Man
replied, "Yes! And super-size them!" And Satan said,
"It is good."

And Man went into cardiac arrest.

God sighed and created quadruple-bypass surgery.
Then Satan created HMOs

The Cinnamon Peeler

Certainly this is one of my favorite poems...Love how nicely it expresses the way love lingers on the body, even away from the loved one. And yes, wouldn't it be marvelous to go about smelling like chocolate? Scrumptious. The Cinnamon Peeler, by Michael Ondaatje

If I were a cinnamon peeler I would ride your bed And leave the yellow bark dust On your pillow. Your breasts and shoulders would reek You could never walk through markets without the profession of my fingers floating over you. The blind would stumble certain of whom they approached though you might bathe under rain gutters, monsoon. Here on the upper thigh at this smooth pasture neighbor to you hair or the crease that cuts your back. This ankle. You will be known among strangers as the cinnamon peeler's wife. I could hardly glance at you before marriage never touch you --your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers. I buried my hands in saffron, disguised them over smoking tar, helped the honey gatherers... When we swam once I touched you in the water and our bodies remained free, you could hold me and be blind of smell. you climbed the bank and said this is how you touch other women the grass cutter's wife, the lime burner's daughter. And you searched your arms for the missing perfume and knew what good is it to be the lime burner's daughter left with no trace as if not spoken to in the act of love as if wounded without the pleasure of a scar. You touched your belly to my hands in the dry air and said I am the cinnamon Peeler's wife. Smell me.

Her Ambition

This poem was written in 1929, when the only comfort that was offered the farmer was to take a tip from the housekeepers, adjust himself to the changed conditions and regulate his produce accordingly.

People were consuming food for their own pleasure or profit, regardless of whether it meant ruin or prosperity for some one else.

Her Ambition

by Earl D. Van Deman

Some sculpture dreams in marble blocks,

And some in fancy's words of fire,

And some their inner souls unlock

With soothing music's  raimbow lyre;

While others make, in piles of stone,

Cathedrals, castels, halls of state

Ambition's refuge, grand but lone.

My heart desires no fame so great.

I'd rather mix an "angel cake"

Than model, sing or pen a book.

My dreams within a loaf I bake:

I'd rather be my husband's cook.