Category: Food

Turkey Dressing

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Cecilia’s middle son drew a picture of a turkey to decorate the door for Thanksgiving. The turkey had a mustache and wore a tux. “Why a tux?” Cecilia asked. Henry shrugged and Cecilia let it go. She was busy making pumpkin pie and cranberry relish for the big dinner.

As the guests arrived the next day, the first question everyone asked was, “Why a tux?” Henry’s Grandma said she liked a turkey who knew how to dress. His Grandpa said, “What a stuffed shirt.”

Cecilia said, “The best thing about this turkey tux is no one’s talking politics.”

Gobble, gobble.

The One That Got Away

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I want my baby back. Ribs. That’s back ribs. I was standing at the meat counter and there was one package left. It’s been ages since I’ve barbequed ribs, ages. 

The last time was at a cabin up north, summer. The mosquitos were buzzing and I slapped at them and then made a fire to smoke the skeeters away and once you have a fire, then you need some ribs. So we had ribs, potato salad, beans, and apple pie. 

I looked for the ribs. Gone. They were in this lady’s cart heading for dairy. So, I got some tofu.

On the Day of the Dead, Life and Death Meet

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La Calavera Catrina strolled in the park on La Dia de Muertos. She passed stands of tamales where patrons and proprietors waved. A small boy ran to her and held out a sugar skull. “Senora, for you.”  Catrina’s skeletal face brightened under the wide-brimmed hat she wore.

She plucked a flower from the hat and held it out for him. “Muchacho, muchas gracias. I wish you a long life. Live it. All the generosity in your heart, give it away and it will grow. Hold it close and it will wither.” She took his hand; he smiled; they strolled on.

After the Funeral

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Sven was filled with Guinness and peanuts. Distracted by a roadside fruit stand, he ran a stop light.

An ordinary goat in a neon vest and hard hat was selling a variety of grapes: blue concords, tiny green Champagnes and four other kinds. 

“I’ll take a pound of the Muscat,” Sven said through his open window. 

The goat ambled over, leaned on the roof and stared. “You’ve had enough.”

But Sven wanted grapes more than he could say. “They’re for my wife.”

There were no grapes. There was no wife. Sven began to weep for grapes and so much more.

It’s Busy Eating

Photo by Monica McHenney

Was there something delicious on the maple tree? It wasn’t the seeds, those sharp red propellers. Soft pod, brown, almost gray, shriveled as if it was a dried up blossom.

Squirrels eat maple flowers. They also chew the tubes on our irrigation system. Five gnawed holes, half an inch apart. No luck plugging them. When the sprinkler goes off, water spurts to soak the ground under the Tipu tree. 

The squirrel has a greedy little face as it pulls the branches to it, plucks the blossoms, takes a nibble, and tosses the husk away. We face off. His says, “Entitled.”

Hedgehog, Harlequin, Hummus

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The falafel place got hopping around seven. All sorts would come. Teens in balaclavas and tweens blasting K-pop. Some had coffees, particularly the matrons who clustered in little groups and read the menu.

At the end of the line, the harlequin stood in a multicolored silk suit, a hedgehog perched on his shoulder. 

“Is it all prickly?” A child, barely twelve, looked up at the painted face of the man and the sweet animal on his shoulder. 

“Not really.” Harlequin cupped it in his hands.

“Can I hold it?”

The hedgehog was amenable. It sniffed.

“I think it smells hummus.”

Making Up Stuff

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There are house elves in my basement. My therapist says this is a delusion. But, she’s not here at night when they clatter around in the kitchen making noise. My partner rolls her eyes. 

What makes them think the elves are not real? This is totally likely, aside from the fact that we have no basement and no decent place for an elf to set up housekeeping or raise a family. I ask you, how can dishes get done and meals cooked while I stay in bed dreaming? My therapist thinks it’s my partner and my partner agrees. They’re deluded. 

The News Went Straight to Her Waist

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Elsie was in such a rut. Doomscrolling was her go-to activity. Things changed with an e-mail. She’d won a weekend at a luxury spa. She woke in a fancy hotel, took a yoga class, and had donuts for breakfast with her personal trainer. 

The girl finished her yogurt. “Any trouble spots?”

Her tummy, always her tummy. The mound that amplified her waist had expanded recently. “I want a flatter stomach.” 

”You’re a stress eater.”

“How could you tell?”

The trainer said, “Your T-shirt.”

It said, “Hands off my junk food, you fascist.”

“We’ll start with your social media. Then, pilates.”

Radish, Rabbits, Rapping Redux

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Rapping rabbits, reaping radish,
Ruddy, spicy, earthy, raffish.
Crunchy red, dicey tribe,
Nibbles, wiggles, saucy vibe.

Hey, yeah, whatcha saw,
In the garden, giant maw.
Open, rapping, tails snapping,
Radish beat and bunny dapping.

Dig it, dig it, from the soil,
Dig that radish, toil, toil.
Little claws feed little maws.
Eat the beat, cure the blahs.

Hey haw, whatcha saw?
Peter Rabbit in a brawl,
Fists be punchy, throw a paw.
Gonna call em, call the law.

Sirens sound a red alert.
Sirens scream one damn loud blurt.
Leave the fields, hop the fence,
Dude don’t owe no recompense.


The Perfect Pet Cow

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Ellie groped for a pitcher to hold her morning milk. The pitcher felt warm. It moved and mooed when she touched it. It had the same fresh smell of country lanes that had attracted Ellie’s attention as she browsed the housewares aisle of the local thrift store. The pitcher had been only five dollars. She thought she might be asleep.

Overnight, the pitcher became a cow. She fed it salad and built a small platform with a hole in the center for the cow to stand on. She placed her tea cup under the center hole and squirted in milk.