THE LESSONS OF SMOKED FISH, BEAR CLAWS &
AMERICAN BARBECUE
thinking of Colleen McElroy's poem
"To Market, to Market"
Robert's new grill is on the motor rotisserie,
the juices of a chicken seeping, gathering, then plummeting
to the silver foil catch pan over the coals. Every Saturday morning
there is someone out there with a power mower, even in this little
neighborhood
with diploma-sized lawns, lots of student tenants
and a fairly small variety of
birds.
I too learned the sound of the Ice Cream Truck
tinkling through East Whittier or La Habra
roller-skating-bike-riding-lots-of-library-be books school vacations,
and I also had different urges.
It was the toot of the little horn on the bakery truck,
not the ice cream wagon,
that lured me from wherever I was,
reading or playing with paper dolls.
My own salivary juices sloshed
around when my ear caught the wooden click
of the drawers in the Helm's Bakery Truck, the wax paper
serviettes that the baker's driver crinkled and whispered
over the warm icing. My nose drawn
to the risen yeast, the scent of
Bear Claws and Raisin Cinnamon Buns. Sugar
was never so inviting.
I wish, like Colleen who grew up in St. Louis, that I had had the essential
wisdom of taste to go for smoked fish,
sashimi moments,
salty roe on a cracker.
After all, I was a sailor's
daughter. But I graduated low, or average,
in the class of food tastes.
My nickel bought an Abba Zaba, peanut butter taffy bar
that was long and had
more chewing time. I
admit it it. There was once a time when
sugar bewitched me, even though I wanted to be
different.
Late summer and these birds are eating our
seeds;
now the Nuthatch lands for a sleek
black-headed bite, moves back to
the trunk
of the Locust where he walks
upside-down.
Red Cardinal is like the red Kool-Aid which healed
our hot throats, bad for us
with red dye numbered poison.
I don't know if the female Cardinal
who only blushes red from her brown coat
is anything like me. She takes her presence for
granted,
whereas I feel left out
on this Saturday morning, defined
by men mowing,
grilling,
taking care of
the orderly world I love
and the birds that inhabit its backyard.
My only contribution is the Moonflower,
one of which is trumpeting white,
as big as a street lamp
on its desert stalk this morning.
American Saturday morning.
Red Cardinal,
Old Blue Jay,
White Moon Flower.
"Stop flashing,"
I tell the birds. "Stop flashing," I say.
Your beauty is beyond what I can order. In fact,
I am not the Orderer in my life. I am the Observer
of beauty, of Saturday morning order. I only
see where it is and where it is not. I
know the falseness of sugar
but was never wise enough, like Colleen, to prefer smoked fish.
I am full of failed memories. Locked in
the Midwest, away from the salty ocean and
the smoky odors of old boats,
away from the essential sex
of this universe
which cannot be sugar.
Copyright © Diane Wakoski, 1999. All Rights Reserved.