Foodstuff Friday: blueberries on the Frost

I've picked blueberries in a whimsical, oh, I'm in the country, let me be natural manner common to city dwellers. 
I also buy them frozen. The frozen blueberry can be eaten one-by-one like popcorn. I rarely eat a frozen blueberry in that manner, however. Instead I pour them over Greek yogurt.

It's like a chemical experiment, or so I imagine. It could be a chemical experiment, but chemistry was not my subject. If Lavoisier froze blueberries, bully for him. 

On contact with the berry the yogurt freezes up. Wait for the thaw then slightly mussh (not mush) the berries and the snowy yogurt.  The berries' sweetness will ooze.

The result is ersatz ice cream. It is also, a thing being equal to itself, as I often maintain in my bid to let everyone know I once read whoever that was, Euclid or Aristotle, I'm no longer sure, blueberries and yogurt.

Frozen blueberries.  Greek (or any plain) yogurt.  A bowl.  A spoon.  An open mouth and open heart.  Paradise.

To read Robert Frost's "Blueberries" in the full version click on the title. For an abbreviated, blog-size version I found the following on Poemhunter.com.  {Note: I now understand that sense of someone else having thought of it long before I did when I used "thumb" in "Six, Seven Strawberries." At least I steal from the greats.}

from "Blueberries"

Blueberries as big as the end of your thumb,
Real sky-blue, and heavy, and ready to drum
In the cavernous pail of the first one to come!
And all ripe together, not some of them green
And some of them ripe!
You ought to have seen!
___________
Robert Frost


The illustration is by Garth Williams, of course. There's great one of his, well, they are all great, in The Golden Book of Elves and Fairies. A bear eating blueberries.

Foodstuff Friday: Génoise, the ladies room, perfectionism in poetry

I was in the ladies room with a can of frosting and a pint of rum. It was a creaky office building on Hollywood Blvd. The doors were scratched dark wood. I titrated rum into the goo. I was in my early twenties; an office manager or secretary.


This happened.

My untamed and grand approach to life had me baking three génoise layers the previous night. Because of the batter's delicacy, flour to egg to butter ratio, there was anarchy among the ingredients. My first run I created a scrambled sort of concoction. Then I got tough, called the ingredients to order (eggs and flour are more noisy than you might think) (sugar is quiet--life is full of surprise). Things worked.

Oh how fragrant the kitchen! How ebullient the light sweet sophisticated layers! But at 2 a.m., the trash can overflowing with egg shells and failed attempts, three gorgeous layers cooling on their trays, I caved. I'd be up all night if I began melting chocolate for whatever extravagant icing I had in mind.

Next day, M. joined me in the ladies room to help determine rum to icing proportions. (I'd picked up canned icing on my way in, and stuffed the Bacardi into my purse before leaving home.)

What does this have to do with poetry? I'm glad you asked and invite your ideas. My friend A. is claiming s/he's produced no publishable poetry for years. B.S.! I respond.

a) Publishable? The good, the bad, the ugly, the superb get into print and online.

b) It's impossible for A., so talented, so bright, so full of heart and shadow, to suck for so long.

c) It all tastes good. Images? Yum! Alliteration? Tasty! Fluidity? Divine! Enjambment? The surprise filling of poesy! Form? Flexible! (Anymore!) Your variations, your voice? Yes!

Three perfect génoise layers with crappy canned frosting semi-successfully flavored with Bacardi. Goes together as well as this posting, questionably, but there it was and here it is. My rule, self-rule if you will, in writing this blog is to never spend more than an hour (and usually a lot less) composing and to grab the first good image I see.

That was a good cake. I no longer bake. I still eat. I write. I make no sense. It's a blog. It's a life.

Tuna Croquettes and The Poem

Not a tuna croquette.

Today is Friday and so we turn our attention to tuna croquettes. In high school this humble foodstuff made the last day of the week almost livable. These breaded and fried or baked blops of canned tuna and white glue tenderly covered in a warm nubby throw of mushroom soup at least made it possible to keep eyes open until lunchtime.

Soon thereafter we checked out mentally. The hipper kids of course simply walked out the door. Summer Fridays were invented by high school truants.

Of course so much has been written on the subject of tuna croquettes and poetry I doubt this humble poet has even the tiniest crumb or grease spatter. Goethe's surprisingly plain "Ist gut" is Teutonic equivocation: was the poet considering making a deal with a generic soup canner? Mephistopheles? Whitman wrote of "containing diced celery" and as every schoolgirl and boy knows the beloved Belle of Amherst published but six recipes for variations on tuna croquettes (with bees, prairies, Death, Wild Nights! More Death and em dashes) in her lifetime. Most tragically, Sylvia Plath drowned in the heavy batter while her children slept. Elizabeth Alexander brought renewed--and positive--attention to this classic by sharing a portion as America lovingly watched its first tuna croquette loving President inaugurated.

If anything can break a line it is a tuna croquette.  Did Woolworth's counters offer tuna croquettes?  I remember their Cokes, pie slices and grilled cheese sandwiches, each of which inspires versification. And that, my puzzled friends, is enough for me.