Page 70 - WCM 2022 Winter

Yankee Cuisine
I want some Yankee cooking, some comfort for the soul,
a good and hearty dinner that’s presented in a bowl –
like thick beef stew with carrots and Aroostook County spuds, with peas and purple turnips to satisfy taste-buds.
I long for Yankee pot roast sliced so thin and tender,
served with mashed potatoes and brown gravy to remember. Add butter-slathered hot rolls teetering on the plate,
and my gustatory cravings are in a happy state.
I’m tired, so tired, of Tex-Mex and southern barbecue,
that I need a cup of chowder and some oyster crackers, too. Make that up with corn or clams lazing in full cream;
with a slab of crumbly cornbread and some Moxie, it’s a dream.
Other regions’ cuisines get all the big-time news,
while homemade beans and hot dogs receive no rave reviews. Baked scallops spritzed with lemon and lobster rolls done right
are pinnacles of “Down East” fare just meant for special nights. Choose deep-fried clams, haddock (schrod!), mixed seafoods in a pie, dark bean soups, tart coleslaw and fried onion rings piled high.
What about our brown bread and molasses hermit treats? And turkey dinners, cranberry relished, simply can’t be beat. Pumpkin pie for breakfast, yes, or apple pie with cheddar? Savor blueberries in a buckle and ice cream in any weather.
I’m hungry for baked apples made from our orchard treasure
that shaped my childhood reveries of many a picnic pleasure. Desserts like Indian pudding, warmed up, whipped cream on top, or shortcake heaped with strawberries, or frappes swirled like a mop, or whoopee pies and root beer floats content me at meal’s end. Banana splits, and creamsicles, and Twinkies – say “Amen!”
I want some Yankee cooking, some comfort for the soul, and some frozen pudding ice cream that’s melting in a bowl! Yes, our New England menus rate respect across the land. Supper’s on the table; come and get it while you can!
Michalene Hague
Patchwork Poem
I’d like to cut the fabric. I’d love to spin the thread, to quilt a poem of hours and spread it on the bed.
I’d love to slip myself beneath the poem along with you
and steal away the afternoon wrapped in green and blue.
We’d burrow under the covers.
We’d snuggle under the sheet.
We’d pull the poem o’er both our heads. I’d tickle both your feet.
The poem would soft remind us of a blanket made of snow.
No one would ever find us.
No one else would know.
Lisa Moore
70
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