Palate cleansing
swirled snow, gelled light, and suddenly, everything is alright
I recently took a writing class with essayist, cookbook writer, and poet1 Kate Lebo, whom I’ve long admired from afar. Kate is the author of The Book of Difficult Fruit, an inventive essay collection profiling an irascible collection of prickly produce.
It’s the sort of palate-cleansing masterpiece well-tailored to the current moment. Twenty-six image-rich essays, each short enough to squeeze in with a midday avocado lunch piled high with sprouts, fried tofu, and garden greens2.
A few weeks back, I purchased seven sturdy stalks of rhubarb (don’t worry, I’m coming back to the book). My original plan was to drop them in a homemade pie dough I’d defrosted. Unfortunately, I harbor an endless capacity for excellent plans and spotty execution. The pie dough, rolled and ready, remained unfilled. I reconsidered, rerouted, recommitted. Rhubarb Quick Bread took a stalk and three-quarters off my hands.
For what to do with the rest, I revisited Kate’s book. Rhubarb, she notes, has long been admired for its medicinal properties, especially to cure ills of the gastronomical sort. These days, it's not uncommon to find it sweetened, gently coaxed into compote or doused with pouring cream in an Elizabeth David-like fool. Kate’s suggestion? Simmer champagne vinegar, sugar, and maple syrup over low heat. Slice the rhubarb and pile into wide-mouthed glass mason jars. Pour the pickling liquid over top, adding garlic, mustard, coriander seeds, and pink peppercorns. Chill.
Just as this pickled rhubarb promises to clear the digestive tract of any unwelcome debris, there exists another recommendation for the common ailment of cluttered mind. An efficient palate cleanser for tasks left undone — pie crusts unfilled, submissions unedited — can be found in The Hungry Ear: Poems of Food & Drink3.
If it wasn’t a gross copyright violation, I’d upload the entire book, prescribe a poem a day, and await your report of a calmer mind and increased creative output.
Instead, I offer you a single Friday-morning meditation, courtesy of former U.S. Poet Laureate Rita Dove. May we all be so lucky to spot the small, miraculous moments in everyday life.
Grape Sherbet
The day? Memorial.
After the grill
Dad appears with his masterpiece—
swirled snow, gelled light.
We cheer. The recipe’s
a secret and he fights
a smile, his cap turned up
so the bib resembles a duck.
That morning we galloped
through the grassed-over mounds
and named each stone
for a lost milk tooth. Each dollop
of sherbet, later,
is a miracle,
like salt on a melon that makes it sweeter.
Everyone agrees—it’s wonderful!
It’s just how we imagined lavender
would taste. The diabetic grandmother
stares from the porch,
a torch
of pure refusal.
We thought no one was lying
there under our feet,
we thought it
was a joke. I’ve been trying
to remember the taste,
but it doesn’t exist.
Now I see why
you bothered,
father.PS: A gentle reminder about the Four Top storefront on Bookshop.org. It’s a nimble space, constantly growing and changing; a peek into what, if I had my own storefront, I’d stock. Every time you buy a book via my link, I get a bit of pocket change, which helps fuel future creative endeavors. So if you can’t make it to your own local indie bookstore (which I very much recommend you do!), please consider buying your books here.
My kind of triple threat.
Yes, I could have simply said “sandwich” but this looks way more fun.
Credit where credit is due: Kate recommended this volume during our class, and it is GORGEOUSLY good.
There exists a tiny possibility that the reason I love this poem is the fact it reminds me of my go-to childhood Baskin-Robbins order: one scoop of grape ice cream with a second scoop of bubble gum ice cream. I don’t know. Kids are weird.
Now I want some rhubarb bread. Just need to find the rhubarb!