“At one meal, we were already talking
about the next.”
—Frances Mayes, Under the Tuscan Sun
When young, I wanted to resist
my female kin, who would insist
on starting to plan the next repast
while others, full, digested the last.
Washing or drying, at the kitchen sink
they’d have a happy collective think,
going over what all they’d need
to build the next communal feed
from market, fridge, or pantry shelf,
or Gran’s garden (to pick yourself).
Today, I am of the same mind:
right after meals, I have to find
ingredients for the coming meal
before I rest. It makes me feel
doomed to relive forevermore
food-driven lives that went before.
Have women progressed? Not in the least.
We need a vacation. And baker’s yeast.
What’s in a Name?
TEXAS—a state that blithely self-defames:
the Treasurer for years was Jesse James.*
When Jesse died, the voters—disregarding
the ill repute—elected Warren Harding.#
What’s in a name? New guardians of the purse,
with good-guy handles, may just skin us worse.
* 1941-1977; no relation to the notorious outlaw (yet named for him).
# 1977-1983; no relation to the 29th President, whose administration was a byword for corruption.