pantryslut

(all text from Russ Parsons, How To Pick A Peach)

An eggplant is a thing of rare beauty.
Its form ranges from as blocky and solid
as a Botero sculpture
to as sinuous and flowing as
a Modigliani. Its color
can be the violet of a particularly magnificent sunrise
or as black as a starless night. It can be alabaster white
or even red-orange and ruffled.

And its beauty is more than skin-deep.
The flesh is at once luxurious in texture and
accomodating in flavor.

So why does the eggplant scare people?

Let's get one thing straight:
most eggplants are not bitter
(even though they have every right to be
after everything that has been said about them.)
At least they are no more bitter
than a green bell pepper or the tannic skin of a fresh walnut.
They have a whisper of bitterness
that adds to the taste rather than ruining it. In fact,
it's that subtle edge that makes eggplant
such a great companion.

For a vegetable that can look like such a brute, eggplant
is surprisingly fragile. It bruises easily, and
those bruises quickly turn bad.
Eggplants' thin skin is also susceptible to damage.

Salting the vegetable does nothing to remove bitterness
(which isn't really there in the first place)
but it does pull the water out of the eggplant,
collapsing the cells.
Try it and you'll see.
Salt eggplant only if you are going to fry it in oil.
Supposedly, if you cook eggplant
longer, it will release the oil it has absorbed.
This takes very slow, patient cooking, however,
over a long period of time.

This is the piece I read at My Sucky Valentine--it's a riff off of Kay Jewelry's very annoying slogan "every kiss begins with Kay." So...


Other Things That Begin With K

K is also for kidnapping, as in, should you ever be kidnapped and held for ransom, you’ll be glad you held onto those diamonds your ex-lover gave you, even though you later figured out she bought you nice things like necklaces and roses every time she cheated on you.

K is for Kill, as in, “Trying to buy my love with mass-produced jewelry studded with ethically suspect diamonds kind of kills the romance.”

K is for Killjoy, as in, “stop trying to make me think about things like ethics and cultural expectations and oppression and stereotyping and alienation when I’m just trying to get laid, you big killjoy!” You may have guessed that I hear that one a lot.

K is for Kale, one of my favorite vegetables. It is not red and tender and sweet. It is dark and green and tough to chew. Now you know why it is one of my favorite vegetables.

K is for Kidney. Not heart. Kidney. It processes your waste and turns it into gold. For that, you should thank your kidney right now. Also, most of us have a kidney to spare, which cannot be said of your heart. Metaphorically or otherwise.

K is for Kick. Love is a habit that most of us can’t kick.

K is for King-Sized. Now that’s what I want for Valentine’s Day. Forget roses and chocolates and lingerie-clad teddy bears, and order me up a king-sized bed filled with a selection of my favorite morsels, please.

K is for kowtow, as in, I refuse to kowtow to oppressive capitalist ideas of manufactured, overpackaged, red, heart-shaped sentimentality. Reclaim red for revolution! Smash the state!

K is for Kook, which is what I sound like when I spout off about revolution like that.

K is for Kleptomaniac. Now that's sexy.

K is for Klutz, as in, you were a klutz with my heart the whole time we were dating.

K is for Kamikaze. A suicide mission glorified by romantic appeals to patriotism.

K is for Kvetch, which is what I’m doing now.

K is for Kaiser. Hooray for for-profit healthcare!

K is for Kerosene. Also sexy!

K is for Kibosh, as in, she put the kibosh on our relationship.

K is for Kaput.

Words I hate:

* Analytics.
* Brand.*
* Bright.
* Buzz.
* Clever.
* Currency.
* Deal.
* Demand.
* Driven.
* Goal.
* Identity.
* Networking.
* Niche.
* Performance.
* Practical.
* Smart.
* Traffic.
* Vision.



Words I like:

* Ambivalent.
* Carapace.
* Friend.
* Generalist.
* Intriguing.
* Revolt.



* Unless we're talking the application of fire, here.

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In Praise of Chopped Liver

Chopped liver is terrible for you.
Though high in protein and iron,
it has enough fat and cholesterol to kill a small army.
Even as a young child I knew that the liver, like the kidneys,
is a garbage dump for waste products,
certainly not something to be ingested.

It's not elegant like pate.
It has not gained the homey comfort level of liverwurst.
It is lumpy, gray and, well,
it doesn't smell quite right.

I managed to avoid chopped liver for the first half of my life.
And then it happened.
While my initial reaction was revulsion,
I quickly came to understand what everybody had been clamoring about.
Its flavor was exciting but its texture was comfortable.
At the same time exotic and familiar,
it was truly and undeniably delicious.
I had tasted my first chopped liver.

The components of chopped liver are mundane at best, but the union of
liver, sautéed onions and hard-boiled eggs
transcends the ordinary nature of the raw materials.

The flavor stays true to its humble ingredients
yet when they are ground together
they become haunting and rich.
It is reminiscent of the flavors of the farm
but with a depth that reaches far beyond.
Chopped liver may be peasant food but
even peasants deserve to indulge.

It transforms the plain into the sublime.


(All text found at http://www.sallys-place.com/food/single-articles/chopped_liver.htm. There's a recipe, too.)

(from this entry)

1. (slightly modified from the original)

I have
estimated
that it is
not worth
my time
to learn
to spell
Floccinaucinihilipilification
much less
write a poem about it.


2.

Anita wore sparkly panties
for her turn on the trampoline.
She sewed on each sequin herself.
They were cut full and high,
and they were white.
The sequins gleamed silver in the summer sun.
Anita felt like a majorette
without a baton. She didn't need one.
She had a pleated skirt, navy blue,
flipping up, again and again.

* I will marry the man (or woman) who can bring me a donut peach.

* I want to make out with your husband.

* Heirloom vegetables are folk music for the mouth.

* This tomato tastes like a banjo.

* The hybrid seed does not run true.

* I will wear a blushing gown.

(written for cindymonkey yesterday, just because)


This morning
I had a crush on the world
but then it started acting
like a ten year old boy
who shows his affection
by putting snails in my lunchbox
and pulling my hair
so I'm angry at the world
and his inane little giggle
I want to push his face in the mud
and sit on his chest
and pull his hair
then he'll know
I love him too.

It took me six months to write a poem for your wedding;
the marriage was over after three.

(still a draft)

Dirty But Not Cheap, Or, Luxury Goods

1. Easy To Love, Hard To Fuck

I don't have a chastity belt.
I do have a ring's worth of keys.

Penetrating my body is easy.
Picking locks is hard.
But I know what's found behind them:

Buried treasure.

2. Thirty-Second Speech On Why You Should Fuck Me

I talk dirty, but not cheap.

I have no shame.

I come so hard that on hot summer nights, the neighbors like to bring out their lawn chairs to listen.

3. Fuck You

Sometimes I wonder:

Broadcast tower or stereo receiver?

Amplifier or speaker stack?

Input or put out?

4. Flood

You say you like a tease, so
I am going to say this
with all my clothes on.

Underneath these clothes
I am wet for you
I am wet all the time for you
I have laundry bills like you wouldn't believe
for you

I bought a mattress cover for you
I wore it out for you

I hear that in the highest of high-end hotels
The suites have their own private fountain in the room
Install me in your bed, baby
And you've got your own luxury suite.