After a Week Away
~David Meyer
~for Pat
Sun settled behind me, I round
a bend in the Jemez foothills and meet
the moon’s ghost smiling through
a purple-mountain scrim above
the Sangre de Christos. An hour later
rolling in to Albuquerque
beneath Sandia's charred silhouette,
the first stars spark in a twilight
of blue-black, violet, and rust.
If only you were here, nothing
could improve this day, we two
strolling the airport portico, chilly,
rapt by high desert visions like two
elderly Navajos holding hands
in the long Way of Beauty. Yes …
Except, my flight's delayed, landing
at Midway in the hours when even
our Chicago streets settle
into peace. Wanting to make
delay itself walk in beauty,
I scribble this in the sure and certain
hope that, letting me sleep-in
tomorrow, you will find it waiting
for you on the newel post at the turn
of the stairs, and reading it, will smile.
Night Shift with Newborn
~William Haslam
Your burps and garbled
coos could hardly count
as words. You speak, rather,
in binary, shriek emergency
at every minor tweak
like an unhinged computer
and I scramble to repair
whatever has you bugged.
Then you would feign to sleep
when rocked and hugged
(so I tumble into a doze)
only to summon me abuzz
again with your cry
of mystery. Who knows
if there’s intent at all
within your nascent daze,
ignorant of tides of
nights and days?
But when you still into a lull
(automatic fist around
my little finger), you fix me
in an accidental stare,
face scrunched with
revelation, as if startled
to be aware
that I am there.
St. Joseph’s Day Artichokes
~Elizabeth San Marco
I have a memory from my pink-tiled kitchen, in my family home on McNeel road. Each March my Dad would begin to hint about the upcoming March 19th date which is known as St. Joseph’s feast day. St. Joseph is well-known as Jesus’ quiet father who followed the messages of his dreams, but I never knew the significance of St. Joseph’s Day for my Sicilian father and his pleasing Calabrese wife. Apparently, in Sicily, March 19th, St. Joseph’s day coincided with the spring harvest of artichokes. The artichoke, not only maligned by its name, has a history of funny misinterpretations of how to eat this thistle plant that is cultivated for its edible flower bud. Although many people eat the artichoke heart, my Dad’s version was stuffed with flavored bread crumbs, anchovies, and Parmesan cheese. It was truly a labor of love because as I learned from my Mom, it was an all-day endeavor!
It started with her finding the artichokes, in season, at the grocery store. She usually bought six of them. The first task was to trim the longish stem and then using kitchen scissors, cut the spiny thorns from the edge of each leaf. Then a large knife was implemented to cut about a ¼ inch of the leaves so that the entire artichoke was flattened on top.
My Mom taught me a tip to hasten the process which involved par-boiling the artichokes for a while prior to stuffing them to loosen the tightly packed leaves and lessen the cooking time. While they boiled the stuffing was prepared. There were measurements involved but she mostly eyeballed the proportion of ingredients to make an easily flowing bread stuffing, adding parsley and just the right amount of anchovies. She always cautioned against putting in more than one or two little fish, because she said with that familiar frown, they would be just too salty. The feasting on these stuffed plants did indeed create a powerful thirst, as I recall.
Stuffing the leaves required a big bowl of stuffing and a quick hand to rotate the artichokes and evenly distribute the stuffing between the leaves.The artichoke expanded and became a prettier version of itself. The next step involved a large kettle and figuring how to keep the “chokes’ upright in a pot with a few inches of water boiling to steam them for the next three hours. Sliced lemons were added to the tops of the artichokes and the boiling water. The pot had to be watched during the three hours because the additional water had to be added little by little to keep the steam going. I can still see and hear the little release valve on the top of the large kettle bobbing away to release the built up steam. When the leaves could release from the stem easily with just a slight tug, they were done.They were set to cool and then refrigerated and were served up to my grinning father who was delighted to enjoy this once a year treasure reminiscent of his childhood and now prepared with love by his wife. She had to learn this whole technique from her in-laws because it was not a Calabrese custom. She taught it to me and I made it a few times in my life. Now they are just a pleasant memory of a time with my mom in the kitchen and definitely a reminder of my parent’s love because my Dad became a little kid as he devoured these delicacies. The pile of scraped leaves were entirely unattractive so this dish was never served for company. It was reserved for family and was definitely considered something special. The next step was the most holy grail of gustatory delights as far as my Dad was concerned. He would show us how to remove and throw away the thorny layer to reveal a smooth yet strangely bumpy layer that was the base of the artichoke. This was “gold”! After all of that work, the prize was about four bites of pure artichoke heaven-the bit you scraped off the leaves with your teeth was just a tidbit of this pure artichoke base. It was savored and “oohed and aah ed” over until next year on or about St. Joseph’s day, when my Mom undertook this loving gesture once again. Today, with my parents long gone, I pass the round, tightly closed buds of the artichoke plant in the produce section and they evoke so many memories of love, family tradition, and culture-all wrapped up in that thorny green bud.
dissolve this hunger
~d. ellis phelps
if thoughts are clouds
in an empty sky
come breeze
come swiftly by
sweep away this billowing noise
release me from the love
of these changing shapes
dissolve this hunger
for something more
something more
like weather for a change
–a storm some rain
let me remain in the deep below
let breath be my boat
& om my oar
anchor me
here
Isaiah 41: 10 KJV
“Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.”
Wrestling With Will
~Sally Stinson
I spent years wrestling with will: creating it,
shaping it, harnessing it.
Now, I am practicing the discipline of ease.
It isn’t surrender, it is precision, the kind that knows
when to stop prepping the background
and let what is true take its own
form.
Ease has its own rigor, it listens longer than
any other power ever could.
I built a life by deciding. Now I am learning
the art of letting decisions come to me.
Ease isn’t soft; it is explicit, it knows when to
loosen the knot - -it knows the ways hearts
and minds collaborate.
“Wrestling with Will” first appeared in Strangers: A Field Guide to What We Learn on the Way, Stinson Sashiko Field Guides.
The Pink Pill
~Derral Cheatwood
What the hell is this pink pill for?
I just noticed it here on the floor
and I think a pink pill is one of those that I take.
But do I take the pink one at night,
or in the morning, maybe
with a meal, before a meal
or not with a meal at all?
I know I take a little tan pill,
a bunch that are white
a few that are grey,
and those are the ones
I take every day.
But is this pink pill one of those?
And what’s it supposed to do anyway?
I guess with all the ailments
my doctors have discovered,
this pink one must have
something covered.
So, why am I wondering, hesitating,
just go ahead and take the dang thing
and hope it’s not something
we’re supposed to give
to the dog.
Find work previously published in the peace issue here.
