Section III
Salat Behind Al’s Mediterranean and American Food
This evening, in Birmingham,
when I’m meeting a friend
for fried chicken
and poetry,
you prostrate before God
on a piece of cardboard box
in the back alley.
Beside you, there is a dumpster
whispering styrofoam
and onion skins.
The shells of dead cockroaches
bend and crackle
under your knees. Even they pray.
The backdoor of the restaurant
and the towering
University Parking Deck
shelter you in shadow.
Fifteen minutes from now,
you will bring me cheap fries
and fingers,
and when you ask me
if I’d like ketchup,
your accent heavy as oil,
it sounds like a proverb—
clean tomato,
sovereign God.
—ASHLEY M. JONES
Jubilee
Come down to the water. Bring your snare drum,
your hubcaps, the trash can lid. Bring every
joyful noise you’ve held at bay so long.
The fish have risen to the surface this early
morning: flounder, shrimp, and every blue crab
this side of Mobile. Bottom feeders? Please.
They shine like your Grandpa Les’ Cadillac,
the one you rode in, slow so all the girls
could see. They called to you like katydids.
And the springs in that car sounded like tubas
as you moved up and down. Make a soulful sound
unto the leather and the wheel, praise the man
who had the good sense to build a front seat
like a bed, who knew you’d never buy a car
that big if you only meant to drive it.
— GABRIELLE CALYOCORESSI
Why It’s Delicious
Because my grandmother marched out to the end
of the yard, threw the white oval seeds on the ground
and walked away, and almost overnight the tangle
of vines wrapped itself around the clothesline pole,
the fence and screened in porch. Then small green
pumpkins sprouted and brightened in places so odd
we had to move them to give them room to grow
or to keep them from breaking through the screen.
And when they were large and heavy, Mima ambled
out, lifted the pumpkins and carried them in to carve
and cook the chunks for days in soups, with rice and
with lemon. Except for a handful, she toasted
the seeds and we ate pepitas with salt, cracking shells
with our teeth to reach the slim green meat inside.
Because Jeanne’s mom planted and tended a garden
that grew peas we shucked on her new husband’s
farmhouse porch at the foot of a Pennsylvania mountain,
and she steamed them and served them for dinner
with chicken and mashed potatoes. Because that
bicentennial summer Jeanne and I joined her mom,
she arranged a net over blueberry bushes under which,
clever birds, we snuck to steal the dark ripe beads.
Because Jeanne’s mom took us to pick fat strawberries
we boiled and stirred into jam in huge pots all day,
slathered on thick slices of airy Amish bread, and carried
home in mason jars sealed with paraffin, souvenirs.
Because the fleshy grapefruit in the neighbor’s yard
overhanging our fence personally announces the coming
of winter in our central Florida town and is sweeter
and juicier than store-bought fruit I would never pay for,
and reminds me of the time we lined smudge pots up and
down the rows of groves to keep the freeze from killing
the crop, and of how I welcomed my first kiss one evening
in the crook of the arm of one of those fragrant trees.
Because the moon was full and teasing the tide with her
shimmer when I caught a striped schoolmaster at midnight
even though the fish weren’t biting on our side of the party
boat, and you scaled and fileted my keeper on the dock,
packed the pink flesh in ice for the ride home, and I cooked
it with lemon and butter and wine, and with our fingers,
we fed the perfect flaky morsels to each other’s mouths.
— ELISA ALBO
Menudo
INGREDIENTS
Mezcal | Bay Leaves |
Stars | Garlic |
Tripe | Onion |
Copal | Chiles Guajillos |
Hen | Limes |
Dogs | Salt |
Cow’s Feet | Coffee |
Narrow Bones | Tepito |
Oregano | Tortillas |
DIRECTIONS
1. When your macho comes home gurgling a bottle of mezcal, begin the menudo.
2. He’ll whisper: Te amo chiquitita, then palm your face to the window. You’ll scan for stars made invisible by streetlamps & whisper: Stars see. He’ll let go & laugh: I’ve never liked Estrellita.
3. When he falls asleep at your feet, remember: he is un buen macho.
4. Cut tripe into ribbons in the sink. Finger curved ridges clean. Tripe: though combed it is a bowel.
5. Light copal in a warm clay bowl until it me...