One of my favorite restaurants in Ann Arbor has about three long community tables. When Jesse and I walk in, we are handed a crisp cream menu with five to six dishes that are being served that night. This is a farm-to-table restaurant, and you don’t come back hoping for the same dish because each day the chef makes something different. Each day he must look at what he’s been given and see what he can create with those ingredients.
Our excitement grows as Jesse and I get closer to ordering. Many times we’ll request something, and the waiter will shake his head, and say, “We ran out.” We have to be ready to try something else — something strange, something new — and we are happy to do so because we not only trust that whatever we eat will be great, but we also want to stay and sit and talk for a while in this place.
This concept is similar to the way I write. I take a look at what I have — my memories, the events of my days, my thoughts — and I see what kind of story I can make with these “ingredients.” And when something doesn’t go as I planned, when something new comes up, I have to decide if I want to stay in the story and see where it will go.
For one meal, Jesse and I sat at the bar of this restaurant and talked to the guy who took the orders as we sipped wine he’d recommended. We admired the exposed shelves with stacks of white dishes, mugs, and glasses. It was a simple and cozy set-up, and we agreed it’d be nice to do this same thing in our kitchen. We shared a cheese and meat tray with pickled vegetables, their color popped from soaking in vinegar. It reminded me of my Grandma Ayanoglou, who used to pickle cauliflower. She always kept a jar in her fridge, and to this day I think it’s the only way cauliflower should be eaten.
At the end of the night, Jesse pushed the last of the pickled vegetables towards me, and I picked up a purple carrot. “I had no idea there was such a thing as a purple carrot,” I said, snapping it in half and giving him a piece.
“Who knew?” Jesse said, popping it into his mouth. “And who knew it would be so delicious?”
Try It
This week’s prompt comes straight from Tania Runyan’s How To Write A Poem. Chapter nine is titled “Get Your Exercise,” and in it are several poetry prompts to try. This one is about food: “Choose a food to highlight in a poem, but don’t just stop at taste. Write about how the food looks, sounds, smells, and feels. ‘Feels’ should include not only the sense of touch, but emotion.”
If you’re in the mood for different writing fare besides poems, try the same prompt, but use it to open a story or a nonfiction recollection.
Featured Poem Excerpt
Thanks to everyone who participated in our recent poetry prompt. Here’s part of a poem from Trish that we enjoyed.
…a prayer pose of harvest.
Constant creeping forward motion,
head bowed and hands grasping,
Time is measured by shrinking shadows…
Photo by Paul Asman and Jill Lenob, Creative Commons, via Flickr. Post by Callie Feyen, author of The Teacher Diaries: Romeo and Juliet.
Callie Feyen’s students are blessed, as are the teachers who will read her book (and their own students, who will in turn benefit from it). But more than that, there’s the special excitement of reading the first memoir of a young writer with a compelling voice. Brava!
—John Wilson, Editor, Books & Culture, 1995-2016
- Poetry Prompt: Courage to Follow - July 24, 2023
- Poetry Prompt: Being a Pilgrim and a Martha Stewart Homemaker - July 10, 2023
- Poetry Prompt: Monarch Butterfly’s Wildflower - June 19, 2023
Lori DiGisi says
Avocado
Shades of green
Dark to light
Crisp stiff outer shell
Opens to the luscious interior
A little salt, a little lemon
Scoop out the comfort in the velvet smoothness
Taste the creamy, tangy, salty goodness
Close your eyes
Remember that this dish
Was mom’s favorite delicacy
A healthy fat
A hug for the cravings within
Avocado
Callie Feyen says
Thanks, Lori! This poem makes me want to eat an avocado. I like all the senses you awaken, especially touch: crisp, smoothness, hug. I also loved saying, “crisp stiff outer shell” out loud.
Katie says
Pretty Apricots
You smiled up at my appetite,
from the cylinder
in the salad bar.
Small halves of sunshine,
wet and shiny
mouth-watering.
Wooing me to spoon
you onto my plate
as I smile and drool.
*****
I wrote this a couple of summers ago when we were on vacation.
Callie Feyen says
“Small halves of sunshine” made me smile. What a delightful image!
Donna Falcone says
Trish – I love that line – time is measured by shrinking shadows. I gasped when I read it. So true! And then I thought about the morning shadows from a brand new perspective. Thank you!