Recipe for Fried Tofu

Buy extra firm and check the expiration date
Cut into one-inch cubes and set upon a plate
Dusted with baking soda, sprinkle more on top
Heat oil in a frying pan until you hear it pop.

I use sesame and olive oil, not too much
When adding the tofu cubes don’t let them touch
Wait until each side turns a crisp golden brown
Patiently, before flipping sideways and down.

Once complete, place on paper towels to drain
Diagonally slice vegetables to make this your main
Meal of the day, remember Chinese favorite dishes
Breaking open fortune cookies, reading wishes
Soy sauce, oyster sauce, hot mustard, all comfort food
Sweet and sour tang puts you in a better mood.

Add scallions, mushrooms, carrots, snow peas,
Whatever you find in the crisper drawer will please
But do not forget the garlic, plus ginger is good
Zucchini, string beans, asparagus, if a vegetable could
Sauté well, use it, then mix in your favorite sauce
To this, you’ll one by one, add fried tofu and gently toss.

Serve with noodles, lettuce, or rice
A side of sliced tomatoes or avocado is nice.
Crown with fresh herbs: cilantro, basil, parsley, mint
Compliments will follow. No need to hint.

Red Tomato Harvest

I search for shiny red amongst the chaos of green
Leaves and vines tangled within our once tidy garden
Miraculously produce fruit not seen last night.
As if by instantaneous regeneration,
Tomatoes: scarlet, orange, crimson
Beauteous red orbs, full and ripe, again fill my baskets.

Hidden when green, now visible when red.
A reverse game of red light, green light.
I kneel in the earth looking upwards.
Pluck and pull, tug and twist to the right
Gathering my bounty for a stew.

My hands stinging from their acid
I remove seeds and skins to reveal
Pink juices. Carmine flesh. Colors bright inside
My reward: white soup bowls filled with Gazpacho
Tomato soup, red sauce
Salsa, tomato pie.
Comfort food, the red joy of tomatoes
Resides in my belly and I am satisfied.

Want to read more of Nadja’s poetry? Keep an eye out for her chapbook, Recipes From My Garden, coming this October.

Nadja Maril’s poems, essays, short stories, and novel excerpts appear in publications that include The Lumiere Review, Lunch Ticket, Spry Literary Journal, Change Seven, Litro Magazine, Zin Daily, BarBar, and The Sunlight Press. Nadja earned an MFA in Creative Writing from the Stonecoast Program at the University of Southern Maine and is a Contributing Editor to Old Scratch Press. She lives in Annapolis, Maryland. Her chapbook, Recipes From My Garden; Herb and Memoir Short Prose and Poetry, is scheduled for publication release in October. You can read more of her work and follow her weekly postings at Nadjamaril.com.

Inventory

Angostura bitters
Baby carrots
Crisco
Dolmas
Extra-Fancy Organic Fruit Spread
French butter
Gruyere cheese
Homemade hummus
Italian peppers
Jalapeño-Lime Hot Sauce
Ketchup
Leftover Chinese
Mayonnaise
Nine-grain bread
Onion
Pickle relish
Quiche muffins
Reddi Wip
Salmon
Teriyaki marinade
Uncooked pork chops
Veuve Clicquot Brut Rosé
Whole-wheat sandwich thins
Eggs
Yoghurt
Zero Sugar Coke

A Friend Writes from Paris

I’m in my room, which is secluded from the street, drenched
in the weak, watery light of Paris. Two boys smoking
on the staircase off the courtyard are the only life I’ve seen
today. I have nothing but dismal, depressing news to report.

This morning I had coffee and ate the last of Aunt Esther’s
fruitcake. You mustn’t get the idea I’m starving, however;
I have bread, cheese, jam, and eggs in the cupboard. But
I’m plagued by fugitive thoughts about the delusion of love.

Yesterday, I wandered the city, homesick. I pushed open
the door of a McDonald’s and ordered fries. The counter boy
cruised me and said, Hi, I’m glad to see you. He was cute.
Serge. He super-sized me for free. Were we falling in love?

Love makes me want to push against it, to both fight and
caress it. Serge wasn’t looking for love. He was a talent agent,
when he wasn’t serving French fries to homesick Americans.
He liked my voice, told me I had a pleasing baritone.

He knew a place where amateur singers launched careers.
People like you make millions, he said. You’ll be big; money
will fatten your pockets. You’ll experience the tantalizing
effect of enthusiastic applause. You’ll need a bodyguard.

I’d never needed a bodyguard before. I imagined it would
make me feel more professional, fancier––like when
my shoes make a satisfying click-clack on the ground.
We agreed to meet at the club. I showed up––no Serge.

At McDonald’s they said he’d quit. Deflated, I came home,
lay my head on my arms, and cried in a heap on the floor.
But don’t worry; I’ll have a cheese omelet with toast and jam.
That usually gets me through the interminable Paris twilight.

Note: This poem borrows some language and imagery from these sources:
* Marky Mark, Marky Mark and Lynne Goldsmith
*No Love: Remnants of a Modern Unconsoled, Dominic Johnson
* The Diary of a Young Girl, Anne Frank
* The Flâneur, Edmund White
* The Sonic Boom, Joel Beckerman with Tyler Gray

Don Hogle has published over a hundred poems in sixty journals in the U.S., U.K., and Ireland, including Atlanta Review, BANG!, Carolina Quarterly, Chautauqua, Cider Press Review, and Penn Review. He won First Prize in the 2023 Open Poetry Competition of the National Association of Writers and Groups (U.K.) His debut full-length collection, “Huddled in the Night Sky,” is coming this fall (Poets Wear Prada.) A chapbook,”Madagascar,” was published in 2020 (Sevens Kitchens Press.) He lives happily in Manhattan. www.donhoglepoet.com

Pineapple Upside Down Cake
For my father, Harvey Eugene Cottle (February 28, 1948-December 5, 2023)

It was the only choice for a man
who did not like traditional cake or routes,
a man opposed to any recipe which tasted typical,
or predictable, any taste which left him thirsty.

He told us stories when we were children,
stories full of boxes full of pineapples,
loaded onto the dock of his grocery store,
shipped from a place he had never seen,
somewhere distant on the dusty world globe
resting on the left side of the wood desk in his office.
He always described the way their skins peeled,
weeping from the weight of their journey.

I learned quickly why it was his favorite fruit,
why my father picked the stringy yellow meat—
a complement to his milkshakes, his potatoes,
his cottage cheese, his late winter birthday.

It was the most unapologetic fruit in his store,
the fruit with the toughest skin,
protecting a core so sweet it almost burned
from its own natural juice,
the fruit that took an extra sharp knife to cut,
bound tight in its armor like a seasoned knight.

At first, I didn’t understand its name–
nor its purpose: upside-down cake,
when my mother served it every February 28,
a few hours shy of leap day,
its preparation clothed in the corners of her kitchen.

It just looked like a worn-out cake,
the rusty and spongey yellow rings sunken in,
while still shining like aging artifacts.
It could have been any set of used flanges;
hollowed tree rings; a series of sore, tired eyes.

Yet, it could also have been bands of hidden gold—
waiting for discovery under a light dusting of exhaustion,
the metal lurking almost close enough for capture,
just about in reach of my father’s uncharted instincts,
which faithfully followed the scent of surprise.

Blue-Cheese Burgers

Katherine Cottle is the author of The Hidden Heart of Charm City (nonfiction), I Remain Yours (creative nonfiction), Halfway (memoir), and My Father’s Speech (poetry), all published by AH/Loyola University Maryland. Cottle teaches writing at Goucher College in Baltimore, Maryland and for the Goucher Prison Education Partnership. You can find out more about her work at www.katherinecottle.com.

You acquiesce gorgeously
laugh-sigh, rub of marinade
I know what to do with garlic
you there, pass the tongs

I was like Mother Rusch
beating the grime out of tripe and lung
Wine punt foggy
spoon bent but don’t remember how
(I know it was you)

During your “German” phase you sent me to work
2 x 8 oz frozen tilapia
Salt, grass, leaves
a bag of saffron a mother gives you for holiday
– thaw in package for safety
– make yellow with fire in pan
*best garnished with cold cabbage and sometimes found with bread

We fell in love to the cook’s kisses back when our faucets had no handles
you were OPITZ, scene right
and I AGNES, scene left
a kitchen between us

OPITZ: Just grab the wrench and use it and then it’s done, it’s not a big deal.

AGNES: Morning is a sedative and I am a debtor to your liquor.

Marie left us quietly and until we found the bottle under our mattress we were convinced she had
taken it with her and that made us laugh.
Imagine a wily Brooklyn teenager with a dent in her paw ready to fight.

I would have found her for you,
and I would have fixed our faucet
but we packed our things,
dishes still warm on the counter
your sunken loaf atop our desk
you insisted we turn the car around to find it and I said no
Marie said no, too, and if there’s anything I regret
more than bread it’s that I never did apologize

I imagine her,
writhing atop a marble counter:
There are things I saved in these cabinets. Where are they?

Victoria Suds is a poet and sweet tooth living in New York. Her work has appeared in 12th St, QED: A Journal in GLBTQ Worldmaking and Maggi Peyton Gallery. She studies poetry at The New School.

Let us munch on murgh biryani
or a tray of well-made mandi
sip some sour Turkish ayran
top it off with date-based candy

Grills, you gotta wrap them snugly –
in tandoori naan-afghani
add a raita, try a bite o’
barfi à la Hindustani

Start a food tour from yum Turkey
pass through Egypt and Beirut
land in Dubai, on to Mumbai
for falooda filled with fruit

Pulao, machboos, taht-el-jeder
dashing dishes – do them all
allied with some aloo methi,
plus a tad of desi daal

Aish and roti, khubz and sangak
fava beans with thick tameez
hearty hummus, rich as humus
coal seared lumps of goat-milk cheese

Mirch is merch for pepper lovers
can you take the heat of chilli?
one fun flake of fiery filfil’s
sure to leave your taste buds silly

Crave a beef-based Gulf hareesa
or Iraqi rice-stuffed koosa?
the Levant has sweet harissa
which in Egypt’s called basbousa

Fenugreek and racy spice
Roz-bej-jej from Lebanon
juicy sides of jasmine rice
Butter-chicken-baptised naan

Slabs of tah– plus –deeg or –cheen
kabab barg arrayed on chelo
one blue bowl of mast-o-khiyar,
cap the meal with chai or helo

Brew a batch of pitch-black gahwa
proffer cups with your right hand
furnish guests with heated halwa
spicy karak on demand.

Wael Almahdi is a poet, translator, and healthcare professional from Bahrain. In 2023, he won a High Commendation from the Stephen Spender Poetry Translation Prize. His Classical Arabic translations include work by Lewis Carroll (‘Jabberwocky’), Carl Jung (‘Seven Sermons to the Dead’, as yet unpublished), and Hanan Issa, the National Poet of Wales. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in ArabLit Quarterly, Copihue, Snakeskin, The Knight Letter, The Raven’s Perch, Ekstasis, Blue Minaret, The Ravi Magazine, and Beletra Almanako.

An Ode

She is work horse, single driven.
She is manifest. She is whalebone and
beating heart behind a chicken breast.
She is laced, with coral lettuce, frilled.

She is bread, white toasted,
one slice soft, the other roasted.
For the squish and the crunch,
what they call the salle hard and soft.

She is mayonnaise – cold spread.
Tomatoes.

She is capers. She is the onion.
A toothpick if you want more,
later on,
retrieved from teeth,
remembering, the above you’ve tasted.

Salivate.

As I have done.
Hearing the word ‘lunch.’
Fall on said pointed petard.
Then, carry on.

She is stacked, don’t the mind the fries –
gone soon they’ve finished oiled hiss.

For She,
she is a work horse
(I never
use the whip.)
She is stable, nourishing, a
Favored Pumpernick.

And I forever hungry, seeking,
Sing odes
Of condiment!

For the mayo, and
What
Lucky sandwich
She bestows her gifts.

SARA BARNETT is a writer, actor, and foodie. With a new short story soon coming to IAMB LIT and several poems appearing in current issues of INDELIBLE LIT and REAPPARATION JOURNAL, “For the Mayo” is her first ode to a condiment. For a full list of publications as well as other creative exploits, feel free to check out more at SARABARNETT.NET.

we made ribs on a sunday.
just felt like the right thing to do.

cleaned out the pit, stacked
charcoal with the paper bag bits;

a fiery pyramid to
bless this food.

she came thru with the brats. also
had a taste for them hot links

farmer john. —ADD’EM!—
he prepared potato salad

a la BIG MOMS. he also found a can of beef chili,
HOT! added brown sugar + syrup + sauce BBQ & mustard

cause, we made ribs on a sunday.
this how we do things round here

Hailing from South Central, Los Angeles, Tauwan Patterson is a Black + Queer Poet and recent graduate of the MFA Creative Writing Program at Queens University of Charlotte, North Carolina. His work has appeared in online literary magazines Cool Beans Lit, 3rd Wednesday Magazine, Muse-Pie Press’ Shot Glass Issue #41, the Rising Phoenix Review, The Amazine, University of Baltimore’s Welter Literary Journal, and JMWW, and will also appear in the forthcoming Moonstone Arts Center anthology Which Side Are You On?!, With his poetry Tauwan aims to, in the words of the great Poet and Thinker Marcus Jackson, announce his freedom and presence. Making a sound that echoes in the end that says Tauwan Patterson. No more. No less.

in remembrance

Two matching cans of peaches in the cupboard
I can make that work said the chef’s eager hands
Flour, sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, butter for the crumble
Said the kitchen : for your cobbler, we got all that

Second go round went with a can of diced pineapples
Upside down cake like taste please come inside
This time add the cake mix on top said the sibling
Didn’t forget lemon extract and that sweet sugar brown

One hour later :
Science forged
Let them taste it
Foot stomps/Eyes closed/Watery eyes

Hailing from South Central, Los Angeles, Tauwan Patterson is a Black + Queer Poet and recent graduate of the MFA Creative Writing Program at Queens University of Charlotte, North Carolina. His work has appeared in online literary magazines Cool Beans Lit, 3rd Wednesday Magazine, Muse-Pie Press’ Shot Glass Issue #41, the Rising Phoenix Review, The Amazine, University of Baltimore’s Welter Literary Journal, and JMWW, and will also appear in the forthcoming Moonstone Arts Center anthology Which Side Are You On?!, With his poetry Tauwan aims to, in the words of the great Poet and Thinker Marcus Jackson, announce his freedom and presence. Making a sound that echoes in the end that says Tauwan Patterson. No more. No less.