La Cocina

The aroma of garlic and onion
garlic and parsley
garlic and butter
garlic in everything, it’s the foundation

floods the walls, it soaks
into the teeth
the warmth of the kitchen
illuminates all the spaces

sitting in the heart of the house
the smell of garlic and onion
and parsley and butter
on the table now theres
a mountain of milanesas
a sea of smashed potatoes.

My mom doesn’t hug you.

My mom knows only one language
with the garlic, the onion, the parsley and the butter
she tells you all of the things that she can’t say.

---

Over the Table

There is something missing and
I’m not sure what it is.

There’s salad and french fries
there’s burgers and good beer.

I dare to say there is far too many options
the noise, the people, the songs are all the same.

The aroma passes you by
the disappointment: that’s not your plate!

Everything flows like it should but
there is something missing.

The check in front of your face
lets you know it’s time to go.

The waiters look at you now, anxious
you ate, you paid: the transaction is over.

There is something missing and I realize
when we stay seated, laughing and in between talks

That what they don’t have and don’t share
boils down to a simple word: sobremesa.

---

Agustina Van Thienen is poet from Buenos Aires, Argentina. She is a first-year MFA student at The New School and has been living in NYC for three years. Since moving countries her writing centers around language, displacement and adaptation. Her work has previously appeared in Papers Publishing.

Wake up on Saturday and doom scroll through the endless barrage of colors and textures and
dopamine orgasms of a too-quick-cut-too-bright-lit bowl of smearing yogurt, exploding yolk,
and bread that rips open like insects shedding their exoskeleton in a time lapse. Drool a little bit
on your pillowcase.

Go grocery shopping and fantasize about the kind of person you would transform into with just
the right food purchase. Casually scan the contents of other peoples’ carts and think about what
it’s like to cook in their kitchen, to feed their spouses, to wash up afterwards in the dimly lit post-
apocalyptic smokey sunset glow of a blissfully quiet sink full of bubbles and licked clean
dinnerware.

On Sunday, strain your yogurt by pouring it into a colander or mesh strainer lined with a clean
dish towel. Fold the edges of the linen over the yogurt and lay a plate on top, followed by
another heavier object. Allow to drain into a large bowl or directly into the sink.

Optional: If draining directly into the sink, be sure to scold your waste of this high-protein
byproduct.

Check the yogurt thickness after several hours, stirring and scraping the contents of the towel to
quicken the process.

Have an edible and crank up Joywave and bounce around the kitchen wearing the version of
yourself you used to make yourself be 24/7. Be bubbly be creative be loud be fussy be joyous.
Dirty too many dishes and use too many tea towels and relentlessly work your way through the
spoils of your shopping victory like a machete-wielding warrior in Act III of her vendetta against
vegetation.

In a mediumish pot, melt down a pound of butter. Allow it to gently bubble over very low heat.
Forget it a few times. Remember it again when it reminds you, popping bright and sharp and
stinging as it lands on your arm. It’s done when it no longer steams or bubbles. Filter it in some
rinkydink way — try pouring it through a tea strainer first, then get clarified butter all over the
counter. Filter it a second time through the same tea strainer, but into a larger receiving vessel.
Poke your index finger into insanely gold liquid to rescue a burnt bit of milk solid and lick it
off. Moan.

Put about a cup of clarified butter into a new pot. Hiss yes, it’s fine to the mother-voice in your
head. Peel a shallot, slice it root to tip, and thinly slice into half-moons. Scatter them into their
golden butter bath and heat over low, gently increasing the temp until small bubbles gather
around the shallots and turn them into shimmery oniony diamonds. Dump a bunch of chili flakes
on top, stir excitedly.

While you make the chili butter, consider the yogurt. Scrape around the sides of your tea towel
and eyeball the whey that’s collected in your bowl. Consider saving some. Dump it. Consider
saving the rest of the whey that will be pressed out. Know that you won’t.

When it’s the thickness that you like, scrape it down the sides of the tea towel and into a new
bowl. Admire the sink full of dirty dishes. Feel the edible kicking in around the back of your
eyes and think about feeling sexy in domesticity, licking a little bit of yogurt from the spatula
after cleaning the tea towel and doing it unnecessarily slowly and even more unnecessarily
erotically for nobody but you. Zest a whole lemon into the yogurt.

Did you forget about the chili butter? Grate some lemon zest in there, too.

Juice the lemon into the yogurt and use your hand to catch the seeds and pulp. Use the micro
planer to grate a clove of garlic in and roughly chop the leaves from a fistful of dill into it as
well. Whip it together and leave bits of the dill unincorporated, like little green hotel guests
relaxing in a giant pool of microbes.

From the under-corner cabinet that is loath to find actual functional usefulness, pull out 5 deli
containers that are the size of a handful of goldfish, an actual portion of hummus, most of a cut
up apple, half a grilled cheese sandwich on Martin’s potato bread. Split your yogurt up between
4 of them and pour your chili shallot lemon butter aphrodisiac into the fifth.

Meticulously, and then eventually with the fervor of a second grader, label the contents of each
lid with lime green painter’s tape and MORNING YOG and CHILI BUTT.

Sleep with a heart as full as the contents of your intention-set meal-prepped refrigerator.

The next morning, bring a shallow pan of water to boil. Add a splash of whatever vinegar you
have and reduce it to a low simmer. Crack an egg into a small dish — have a moment of
inspiration and dump the egg from the dish into a mesh strainer. Watch as absolutely no runny
egg white drips from the strainer. Pour the egg back into its small dish, then gently stir the
simmering water to create a tropical storm vortex, slipping the egg into the eye of the storm.

Poach the egg for 3 minutes.

While the egg poaches, retrieve yesterday’s ritual and dollop the MORNING YOG into your
favorite big bowl. Smear it around artistically and foolishly. Microwave about a tablespoon of
the CHILI BUTT and don’t forget to scoop the shallots from the bottom of the container.

Cut 2 thick slices of sourdough and cram them into the toaster.

Check on the egg. Observe how the top has failed to become opaque because you didn’t put
enough water into the pan. Swirl gently, then with some panic, spooning water over its basking
face in the last minute of cooking to close the yolky portal.

Use a slotted scooping device of whatever sort you have to retrieve your egg and place it, wholly
opaque and not dripping wet, onto the yogurty bed you have prepared for it. Lazily, and with
little regard for the friendly fire upon the butcher block, drop spoonful’s of shallot and chili and
butter all over everything.

Look at the mess you’ve made in the too-bright kitchen cut through with steamy swirls of light.

Attack everything with the toast, and revel in your joyous existence.

---

Hannah Hawkins is a native North Carolinian exploring the past, present, and future of Southern identity through food, writing, music, photography, and textiles. She lives in Durham where she spends her time experimenting in the garden, kitchen, and workshop. 

unbound, he is his own person, with hiccups
growing fast and fathomless into bibs, called
neckerchiefs too, each of a different shape or
size, soaks the spills of indulgence, scatters in
crumbs or drops from a straw of banana goo
lands on a serviette saying, “I am a blessing”
egg yolk stains combined with mango shake
a ravenous dribble camouflaged in sunlight
each shade as stubborn as haldi root sworn
for its potent properties, proven to be just
the right antidote to exhaustion; ayurvedic
aunt as opinionated as his refusal of bottle
and aversion to mashed dal, a slurpy mess
of a fountain, there is long windedness to
mealtimes, a mosaic aftermath on the floor
a scrabble of all things baby; not too pretty
herbarium of flavors, handprints on doors
threaded into soft tresses is pure coconut
oil and strings of pureed squash, splashed
across our faces, emblem of healthy habits
the custard walls are a collage of loveliness
texture is how food feels to virgin papillae
accepting or rejecting peas, carrots, grainy
or watery or crunchy, sticky like forbidden
honey, an inexhaustible potluck of senses
even humble oatmeal laced with cinnamon

story time
mashed residue
of heartbreak

---

When Kashiana Singh is not writing, she lives to embody her TEDx talk theme of Work as Worship into her every day. Her second full-length collection, Woman by the Door was released in 2022 with Apprentice House Press and her newest full-length collection, Witching Hour is coming out in 2024 with Glass Lyre Press. She lives in North Carolina and proudly serves as Managing Editor for Poets Reading the News.

It’s almost Christmas
and everyone is unpacking:

the lost box of heirloom ornaments
that can finally be displayed
on a tree set up in balmy November;
the extemporized nativity
with its statues of St. Francis and Santa Claus
added a few years ago
even though they weren’t actually at the birth
(but petal-pink Jesus is missing again
and will need to be replaced).

Unpacking gifts sent by out-of-town relatives.
Unpacking gifts ordered online.

But what everyone really wants to unpack
are the yearly complaints about the current price
of hojas, and chiles, and nixtamal.
Along with all the moans and groans
come the empty threats:
“Sólo haremos tamales para la familia.
We’re not giving any away,”
even though the guy who lives down the street,
whose name and family nobody knows,
will end up with a bag of red and green.

Every year, new gripes about making tamales,
the threats to buy them from a bakery,
but after eating a plate of one too many
on a clear and starry Nochebuena,
with a cup of rompope or diet soda
we all agree that—despite inflation—
the sweet and the spicy were worth every penny.

---

Charles Haddox (he/him) lives in El Paso, Texas, on the U.S.-Mexico border, and has family roots in both countries. His poetry has appeared in a number of journals including Birdcoat Quarterly, Volume Poetry, and Vita Poetica. charleshaddox.wordpress.com

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.

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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.). 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.