Alphabet Soup

The holiday season for many is about family and spending time with those you love; for others, the thing they look forward to most about this time of year is the food. Food feeds the body while family feeds the soul. In your home you may pass plates, in ours we also pass poems.

The Mango
by Mary Oliver

One evening
I met the mango.
At first there were four or five of them
in a bowl.
They looked like stones you find
in the rivers of Pennsylvania
when the waters are low.
That size, and almost round.
Mossy green.
But this was a rich house, and clever too.
After salmon and salads,
mangoes for everyone appeared on blue plates,
each one cut in half and scored
and shoved forward from its rind, like an orange flower,
cubist and juicy.
When I began to eat
things happened.
All through the sweetness I heard voices,
men and women talking about something—
another country, and trouble.
It wasn’t my language, but I understood enough.
Jungles, and death. The ships
leaving the harbors, their holds
filled with mangoes.
Children, brushing the flies away
from their hot faces
as they worked in the fields.
Men, and guns.
The voices all ran together
so that I tasted them in the taste of the mango,
a sharp gravel in the flesh.
Later, in the kitchen, I saw the stones
like torn-out tongues
embedded in the honeyed centers.
They were talking among themselves—
family news,
a few lines of a song

In her poem, “The Mango,” Mary Oliver portrays that the privilege and high class traditions of wealthy countries are deaf to the suffering and labor which their meals, and even desserts such as the mango, are dependent upon. Oliver contrasts the cubist designs that the fruit is cut into with “Jungles, and death.” She compares the juice of the mango to the sweat of human labor “so that I tasted them in the taste of the mango, a sharp gravel in the flesh.” The taste of mistreatment and poor conditions of the fruit’s origin seeps through to the speaker and soils the opulent dinner party experience. Oliver engages the reader through sense of taste; The food is a vehicle of transportation to both new land and new ideas. This is what makes Oliver’s poem so impactful, that even in familiarity are the stories and testimonies of the unknown.

A Poem for Will Baking
by Susan Rich

Each night he stands before
the kitchen island, begins again
from scratch: chocolate, cinnamon, nutmeg,
he beats, he folds;
keeps faith in what happens
when you combine known quantities,
bake twelve minutes at a certain heat.

The other rabbis, the scholars,
teenagers idling by the beach,
they receive his offerings,
in the early hours, share his grief.

It’s enough now, they say.

Each day more baked goods to friends,
and friends of friends, even
the neighborhood cops.

He can’t stop,
holds on to the rhythmic opening
and closing of the oven,
the timer’s expectant ring.
I was just baking, he says if
someone comes by.

Again and again,
evenings winter into spring,
he creates the most fragile
of confections: madelines
and pinwheels, pomegranate crisps
and blue florentines;
each crumb to reincarnate
a woman – a savoring
of what the living once could bring.

“A Poem for Will Baking” by Susan Rich explores themes of family, connection, and the act of creation through the metaphor of baking. The poem reflects on the intricate relationships between family members, emphasizing the warmth and love that come from shared experiences, especially in the kitchen. Rich uses baking as a symbol for nurturing bonds, where each ingredient represents a unique aspect of familial ties,. “from scratch: chocolate, cinnamon, nutmeg, / he beats, he folds.”

As the poem unfolds, it highlights the memories and traditions passed down through generations, illustrating how food serves as a medium for storytelling and connection. The act of baking becomes a communal experience, emphasizing collaboration and the joy of community. Rich’s vivid imagery evokes sensory details that enhance the emotional depth of the poem, allowing readers to feel the warmth of family love. Ultimately, the poem encapsulates the idea that fFamily is not just about blood relations but also about the moments and rituals that bind people together, “even / the neighborhood cops.” Through baking, Rich conveys the enduring legacy of family love, highlighting its importance in shaping identity and belonging.

Butter
by Elizabeth Alexander

My mother loves butter more than I do,
more than anyone. She pulls chunks off
the stick and eats it plain, explaining
cream spun around into butter! Growing up
we ate turkey cutlets sauteed in lemon
and butter, butter and cheese on green noodles,
butter melting in small pools in the hearts
of Yorkshire puddings, butter better
than gravy staining white rice yellow,
butter glazing corn in slipping squares,
butter the lava in white volcanoes
of hominy grits, butter softening
in a white bowl to be creamed with white
sugar, butter disappearing into
whipped potatoes, with pineapple,
butter melted and curdy to pour
over pancakes, butter licked off the plate
with warm Alaga syrup. When I picture
the good old days I am grinning greasy
with my brother, having watched the tiger
chase his tail and turn to butter. We are
Mumbo and Jumbo’s children despite
historical revision, despite
our parent’s efforts, glowing from the inside
out, one hundred megawatts of butter.

Butter binds and adds a creamy texture, much in the same way that family binds our lives together and makes our lives rich and flavourful. I chose this poem because it touches not only on the versatile nature of butter in our favourite childhood foods, but also the role association with food plays in our memory. Alexander uses the imagery of butter to convey fond memories with her brother and the versatility one can find in simplicity.

Bread
by ALEŠ ŠTEGER

Every time, he leads you into temptation to become a gentleman
Who feeds on crumbs under his servant’s table.

He asks you to do him harm, for you to stab him,
To shred him to pieces, consume his still warm body.

Without shame he appears to you naked as a Creation.
He is a pervert. He provokes you with abstinence.

But he is being given you and you give. And every morning
And every evening you repeat the floury game.

He made you into a crematory of guilt.
When he feeds you, you speak and instantly are more famished.

Yes, yes, he loves you, that is why he accepts your knife.
He knows that all his wounds crumble in your hands.

Translated from the Slovenian by Brian Henry

“To shred him to pieces, consume his still warm body.” Transports us to a time at the dinner table while impatiently filling up on bread. This metaphor is used to describe a relationship in which one party is manipulating the other by love bombing and the other person accepts this even though this will end up ruining their perception of relationships after this one enviably ends. The term “floury game” refers to the repetitive manipulation the reader endures. Furthermore, there also seems to be a religious undertone within the poem. Upon hearing the title one relates this to the biblical verse about breaking daily bread. Additionally, the term “naked as creation” relates to the book of Genesis and how God intended for people to be unashamed of their bodies.