Posts Tagged ‘onions

01
Mar
10

No Mea Culpa

there are onions all over this burger,
I said, and I ordered it with none.
she stuck out her bottom lip, pouting,
and said, it’s not my fault. blame the
President if I’m incompetent. after
all, I did a good job when I had one.

26
Nov
09

Green Bean Blues

Wanna be your green bean casserole, baby.
I don’t mean just twice a year.
I wanna be your green bean casserole, baby.
That don’t mean just twice a year.
Cuz once you taste my lovin’
You’ll lick your lips from ear to ear.

I ain’t no crescent roll, babe;
They can be so flaky and dry.
Three-bean salad or pickled onions-
You know I’ll never never make you cry.
I wanna be your green bean casserole, baby.
That don’t mean just twice a year.
Cuz once you taste my lovin’
You’ll lick your lips from ear to ear.

I don’t wanna be the cranberry sauce
And get caught in your teeth.
No marshmallowed sweet potatoes
Cuz I’m not sickly sweet.
I wanna be your green bean casserole, baby.
I don’t mean just twice a year.
Cuz once you taste my lovin’
You’ll lick your lips from ear to ear.

We don’t need your mama’s recipe,
No directions on a can;
All this dish takes is one good woman
And a very hungry man.
Wanna be your green bean casserole, baby.
I don’t mean just twice a year.
Cuz once you taste my lovin’
You’ll lick your lips from ear to ear.
Yes, once you taste my lovin’
You’ll be lickin’ your lips from ear to ear.

15
Nov
09

Roy Blount Jr’s “Song to Onions”

Thinking about and reading poetry to ease the process of getting back to writing my own. Here’s one of my favorite poems about one of my favorite foods:

Song to Onions

They improve everything, pork chops to soup,
And not only that but each onion’s a group.

Peel back the skin, delve into tissue
And see how an onion has been blessed with issue.

Every layer produces an ovum:
You think you’ve got three then you find you’ve got fovum.

Onion on on—
Ion on onion they run,
Each but the smallest one some onion’s mother:
An onion comprises a half-dozen other.

In sum then an onion you could say is less
Than the sum of its parts.
But then I like things that more are than profess—
In food and the arts.

Things pungent, not tony.
I’ll take Damon Runyon
Over Antonioni—
Who if an i wanders becomes Anti-onion.
I’m anti-baloney.

Although a baloney sandwich would
Right now, with onions, be right good.

And so would sliced onions,
Chewed with cheese,
Or onions chopped and sprinkled
Over black-eyed peas:

Black-eyed,
grey-gravied,
absorbent of essences,
eaten on New Year’s Eve
peas.

This poem came from The Writer’s Almanac with Garrison Keillor.

07
May
09

Truth

garlic, onions, anchovies-
can make or break things,

but if everybody eats them,
no one complains when you kiss.

02
Feb
09

Columbo

I don’t even know your first name
And I’m in love with you.
You’ve such a sense of childlike
Wonder and elan as you
Ask your questions.
You’re not always truthful but
When your eyes sparkle, the hair
Falls boyishly across your forehead,
All is forgiven.
I know there will be cigar ash on the carpet.
I know my poetry book will be coffee stained.
I know I’ll be cleaning chili off your trenchcoat.
But if you bring the cheese and onions,
I’ll bring the saltine crackers and
I won’t kick you out of bed
For getting crumbs
All over the sheets.

22
Dec
08

Equinox

It always felt like summer vacation.
Judy Collins sang “Cook With Honey”.
We ate blackberry pie with chopsticks,
Holding our mouths close to our Blue Willow plates.
Hours in the Art Museum and library.
The sharp, salty taste of an old deli.
Watching “Fiddler On The Roof”.
Just for fun, researching the Bubonic Plague.
A Greyhound trip to Denver.
Holiday laughter at the kids’ table.
Falling asleep in her black recliner
With a book and the Sunday paper
On my face and on the floor.
Bob Marley crooning.
Pasta water bubbling.
Tomatoes, onions, garlic simmering,
Veiling the kitchen windows with fog.

A frosty Monday morning.
She’s steamed up the kitchen cooking oatmeal.
Her breathing is harsh and wheezing
When she carries the bowls and brown sugar in to the table.
Her step is steady but a little slower
At least here in the apartment.
She doesn’t seem any more stooped.
She catches me looking.
I think I see a challenge in her eyes.
I quickly look away.
She sits down, straightens, and almost smiles.
We quietly spoon up our oatmeal.
A dog wuffs as it walks up the back stairs.
Anna asks her the big questions she’s brought:
What’s your most valued piece of technology?
What events do you fear?
What do you want most?
I listen for a minute then I lean back
And look at our history hung all over the walls.
Grandma’s children and her children’s children
And the others.
She babysat till she was seventy-five.
After we hug her “goodbye”,
She goes toward the recliner.
(I like to imagine that- like I did-
She’ll be “catching a snooze”.)
“The back porch used to be my office.
That’s where I kept my dress-up clothes,
My colored paper, and my chalk.
No one else was allowed to touch it.”
“You told me that already.
You’re really starting to repeat yourself.”
By the shores of Gitchee Gumee.
St. Patrick’s where they say a Spanish Mass.
Playing “The Minister’s Cat” till midnight.
Eating pink grapefruit with a spoon.
We’re miles away
But now
The fog from her oatmeal
Makes it hard for me to see.