Receipt

Poems

Karen Leona Anderson

• Publisher: Milkweed Editions
• Year: 2016
• ISBN:
  9781571319272
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: American Poetry
• Index: Literature

Poems about consumption: "Deft and insightful... resonant and witty." — The Washington Post In her second collection, Karen Leona Anderson transforms apparently prosaic documents—recipes and receipts—into expressions of human identity. From eighteenth-century cookbooks to the Food Network, the recipe becomes a site for definition and disclosure. Like a theatrical script, the recipe directs action and conjures characters (Grace Kelly at a party). In these poems, the pie is a cultural artifact and Betty Crocker, icon of domesticity, looms large. From the little black dress ($49.99 Nordstroms) to an epidural ($25.00 co-pay), Anderson reveals life in the twenty-first century to be equally hampered and enabled by expenditures. Amidst personal and domestic economies, wildness proliferates—bats, deer, ocelots, and fungus—reminding the reader that not all can be assimilated, eaten, or spent. Receipt is like the lovechild of Anne Sexton and Adam Smith, illuminating the ways in which our lives are both constrained by pieces of paper, and able to slip through the crevices of cultural detritus down to the rich current of animal feeling beneath. "Anderson's poems prioritize wordplay, assonance, and alliteration, which lead her to surprising turns of phrase." — Publishers Weekly "Anderson doesn't miss a beat as she traces our consumerisms—economic, sexual, spiritual, and more—with irony, wit, sadness and more than a little humor. Receipt is, quite simply, a terrific book." —Linda Bierds

RECIPE

GINGER BREAD

After American Cookery (1796)

Three pounds flour breathes Amelia,

America’s orphan, pearl-complexioned,

a girly sweetheart but in need of a living:

grated nutmeg, two ounces ginger,

one pound sugar. Spice: she offers

us white powder: something

bitter: three small spoons

pearl ash dissolved in cream:

a new chemical leavening

from the burnt-down

trees of Albany. So nice,

so not yeast. So—

one pound butter,

four eggs—laborless: not

eighteen egg whites

beaten to a foam: not fat

to rub into nine pounds of flour,

no sticky miscarriage, no

mother, no child. No need.

Just knead the dough stiff

and shape it to your fancy: lady,

orphan, knows how to find

a man: a contract: a fee: the rag

paper cheap; the page gone quick

—bake 15 minutes—

with ink—

LAST-MINUTE DATE RAPTURES

After Betty Crocker’s Picture Cookbook (1956)

My female Virgil, glassy but straight faced, reports:

bees on coke signal they’ve found more flowers

than they really have: the last-minute date

she set up is evangelical at the end, a shame.

He is sober, I guess, but not enough

to make a go of it, even with the Glorified Rice we ordered

and the plate of tea cakes: This favorite of men

came to us from a man, he quotes: nut riches

and filled with sparkling jelly. He wishes

we could get back to that. I, buzzed,

dumb, submit a gate of equal labor, unpearly,

with revolving chores: none of your Wagon Wheels,

Raisin Jumbles, Hermits on the best blue plate.

An empirical kitchen, stainless and useful.

The tools for ascension—the whisk, the rasp—

get his distaste, the mystery out: I’m a literalist.

We split the check. Others here seem

less damned over strawberry fools.

I might rather be them, either one:

one transported, one merely good with a spoon.

CAN-OPENER COOKBOOK (1951)

Everyone has some

trashclass taste, some

Hi Lo Cookie hook,

and what’s his? Is it

butterscotch chips, margarine

instead of butter, the

blond nylon matinee wig

for the fridge, a taste for

Miracle

not mayonnaise,

the whip of

cash-money’s

dusty con: yes,

another skimpy assistant,

yes, the rabbit, the hat,

and some sinisterman

pouring smoke,

cheap as cheap. The dove,

a couple of doves,

and later the sophisticate bit

with the canned-soup

camp, some sleight-of-

hand sex, a little homegrown

to smoke, kohl-lined

lashes left in the sink. Say

the words and

see what happens. Not

vanilla or its witchy

imitation; hang on for the kink,

the real one; you’ll get better

than some sweet feint.
Wait a minute, and

you will feel it:

amazed: ashamed.

PIE

If not by date, by book, by recipe,

then by pie, tattooed, cherry-lush

in the shattering crust I know by hand,

by heart—the garnet gone silk through slits,

the rolled-down skin over salt, rolled down

again, the press of the thumb as it rips

and drapes, undress arrested,

now lifted by heat to the light,

on which you could read,

now vellum, now welling with red,

the kiss of the needle, which if

you missed in your hurry, I guess

now cool, you’ll see through slicks

and sheers of juice the sign I pieced

from crust through red, through cover,

through sugar, your name,

you stitched...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Contents
• Recipe
• Receipt
• Re
• Acknowledgments
• About the Author