Researching, writing about, and discussing the impact of Covid-19 on our foodways and the food system, as necessary as it is, does not begin to describe the emotional experiences connected with the new normal of social distancing. Food has taken on different meanings. We are creating new practices. Once again, as a non-poet, I have tried to use words to convey the more elusive aspects of what we are going through.
Buzz
It’s dinner time.
Again.
There is stuff in the fridge.
I don’t know what to cook
but I want something good,
mouthfuls of comfort
and reassuring flavors.
I have someone to share it with,
to smile at
over a glass of wine.
I know tomorrow is likely
to be the same,
and the following day too,
and the next.
Will this stubborn repetition
make me antsy
or give me solace?
Perhaps the next sip
will come with answers.
Or maybe not.
At any rate,
it’s damn good wine.
Social distancing
Wider than a vegetable patch,
longer that my mother’s pasta kneading board,
six feet
is the size of a tuna fish,
a growing cherry tree,
a tall trellis of grapes.
Six feet away
I could not sniff if shrimp is fresh,
or bananas are overripe.
How to share a meal
if you sat six feet across from me?
Could you ever catch a whiff
of what’s in my plate,
the fragrance of the basil that rules my salad,
the sloppy juiciness of the mango I’ve bitten into?
A toast would have no clink,
just a distant flutter of glasses
filled with obscure content.
With downcast patience,
at times with resignation,
we wait for when six feet
will only be the height of the fridge
that holds all we need
for our next feast.
With plenty of company.
Stress baking
Finally,
she inhales what’s left
of the glowing fumes
from her perfectly baked,
mind-shattering bread.
The loaf lies there,
aloof,
full of itself,
pretending to ignore
that myriad lives were obliterated
to let it gloat
in this instant of glory.
Infinite creatures
grew, multiplied, invaded
the sticky flour dough,
stretching its structure,
trying to burst free.
They had her wait a long time
before they made an appearance,
a gift from a friend
who had raised them lovingly,
giving them a proper name,
calling them: “mother.”
No memory of their origin,
of course,
just like the lifeless things
that have already occupied her lungs
and triumphed,
unbeknownst to her,
while she was waiting
for the oven timer
to shake her from her torpor.
Survival needs no recognition,
it simply is.
It can kill.
Meatpacking
One chunk of meat,
another chunk,
yet another,
all neatly cut,
all equally oozing
what once was blood.
One worker,
another worker,
yet another,
all quiet,
all oblivious,
so close they can guess
what each had for breakfast.
Tight, making sure
that every chunk is taken care of.
It doesn’t matter
if they are coughing,
if this morning they felt like
their bodies were giving up.
Here they are,
quiet, oblivious,
shoulder to shoulder,
chunk after chunk,
flesh and meat.
Panic shopping
I need flour.
Where is the flour?
Where has it all gone?
Dammit!
Rent,
I need to pay rent.
I have to eat first, though.
I know I can save.
I will make it.
I am going to cook, and bake, and roast,
and simmer, and braise.
I won’t fry, don’t know how.
Rent,
How will I pay rent?
Shit, is the cell still on?
I’ll peel, cut, chop, grate, whatever.
I’ll even julienne, whatchamacallit.
Dammit!
No yeast left…
Foraging
Nettle, dandelion, and watercress.
The little girl holds the bag
wide open,
proud to be helping,
ogling her father,
checking his every step.
It’s been a while since she got here.
The countryside is fun.
People seem less scared,
they don’t wear masks,
they greet each other.
There are dogs
and scary bugs
and tree houses
and lakes where only grownups
are allowed to swim.
Dad is here, all the time.
So is mom.
These leaves smell funny.
There’s a worm too,
but dad says we’ll eat them.
That’s fine, as long as we play after
and rest on the hammock.
Can the dog sleep with me?
Video recipe
Who ever thought
that pealing some potatoes
and briskly beating eggs
could be camera worthy?
Every silly tip
is worth trade secrets
we want to give away,
giddily:
our precious contribution
to make the hours pass
and keep each other close.
Who cares if we burn pans?
Chipped dishes can be sexy.
No unflattering lighting
or babbling enunciation
will manage to deter us
from turning on our stoves
and stir up some affection.
Zoom Easter
Swirling wine at 9 am,
I joined your lunch,
across time zones.
Sliced chorizo and deviled eggs
loomed large
on my phone camera,
with chocolate eggs
and toasted bread.
No lamb this year,
or homemade pasta.
For once,
there was no need for me
to play the absent son,
or the prodigal one.
This time
we were all missing
from the communal table,
spread out in ones, and twos, and fours.
Intangible,
virtual,
we felt for each other
through faulty WiFi
and unfamiliar software.
Our jittery gestures
and frozen smiles
kept us together,
caring for us
by staying apart,
duly distanced.
Pre-Covid19 Haiku
Not again that bar!
Always the same, so boring.
You’re one to guzzle…
Post-Covid19 Haiku
Meet me at that bar
to jump-start life and wreck it.
We’ll gobble what’s left.
Food delivery
Three Mexican sauces,
in plastic containers,
spicy, bright,
so hot
they make my brow sweat,
and cause my eyes to water.
Great to dip fried yucca,
screw calories
and balanced nutrition.
Whopdeedoo!
That’s what passes for excitement
these days.
We cling to any crumb
of unexpected,
as trite and predictable
it may have seemed
before.
We shove our fingers
into sticky goodness
with abandon,
fishing for hope
and a bit of fun.
Hold on,
did we cleanse the hell
out of these things?
Dish Washing
Distress is guest of honor
in your spectral restaurant.
It’s not a paying customer.
The silence amplifies
the thuds from upturn chairs
and closed accounts.
The echoes of frantic orders
still fill my washing station,
no vapors left,
all steam lost.
I gather my things
and my last check.
The days ahead
float like potato peels
in soapy water.
I share your pain, I do,
as I plan stony phone calls
to enact the end of dreams.
ICE won’t only star
in polished cocktails.
I already feel
the phantom pangs of hunger
that no leftover produce
from disconnected fridges
will dissipate for long.
Off on our divergent paths,
we share our mute despair
for hopes exhaling their last breaths
like collapsing soufflés.
We ready ourselves
for countless nights
when no one will ask
their meat more done.