One thing that always becomes important the deeper we get into fall is the warmth provided by a well-cooked meal. And nothing is as savory as your favorite comfort food. What might that be? Tell us about it in poetic form. Warm us inside and out with your poetic piece.
MY COMFORT FOODS
My comfort foods are piping hot.
They never fail to hit the spot.
I’ll savor solace that they’ve brought,
And when I’m done, my coffee pot.
For where is comfort in cold foods,
That cannot warm cold attitudes
And never will they change foul moods.
There’s nothing cozy in cold foods.
But I could swear that buttered rolls
Can hinder malice in cold souls,
As can hot pies and big warm bowls
Of soups and stews and casseroles.
© Marie Elena Good, 2018
WALT’S SAVORY SECURITY:
LONGING FOR HOME
The patter of rain,
a steady downpour, it is more
monsoon than shower.
I’ve spent hours huddled
warm under a soft throw.
Temperatures have fallen
the condensation thick
on windows, the aromatic steam lifts
from this savory soup kettle to my nostrils,
it’s warmth fills me with reminders
of mom’s kitchen. I’m itching
to recapture the comfort of home.
Eyes beckon to doze through
the next few hours as the showers
do not relent. I am spent
and it’s merely mid-afternoon.
Energized from the soup on my spoon,
I hope the rain stops soon!
© Walter J Wojtanik, 2018
79 thoughts on “DAY 8 – AUTUMNAL P.A.D. CHAPBOOK EXERCISE: COMFORT FOOD”
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Marie Elena, you’ve got this right: “There’s nothing cozy in cold foods.” Love your association with food.
Walter: This is so true: “its warmth fills me with reminders
of mom’s kitchen.” Great juxtaposition of weather and comfort food.
Glad you liked it, Carolyn.
A little explanation is in order for this cinquain. Rochester has few institutions since the near-demise of Kodak and Xerox (white hots are still thriving, though), but Nick Tahou’s garbage plate is one of them. Nick’s was (maybe still is) a restaurant just west of downtown. It was in a former train station and was known for that gastronomic specialty that consisted originally of two hamburger patties and a choice of two sides — usually some combination of home fries, macaroni salad, and beans. The contents are often laced heavily with ketchup and hot sauce, and mixed together before eating. Rolls or white bread are served on the side. There are many variations, and in the Rochester area other places call them by various names such as trash plate, rubbish plate, and so on.
IT’S SUCH A COMFORT
days in the fall
bid me to visit Nick’s
and sit down to some delicious
Well, I placed this in the wrong place again, but maybe not. I get the feeling that you’d enjoy a visit to Nick’s, Marie. Love your poem.
I’ll probably swing by for some slop next time on the way to Ottawa!
glad you included that explanation 😁
Glad you clarified that first, William. I like this form, and the poem fits it well.
Many find New England in October breathtaking,
especially if they live in climes warmed by eternal summer sun.
Cool brews and finger food give little comfort
when the north winds blow cold, chilling even the most hardy soul.
For autumn’s rain-soaked, mud-filled, whispers-of-winter days,
nothing warms like Grampa’s Garbage Stew!
Broth the color of a dark, old growth forest,
laced with whatever bounty the garden or refrigerator offer,
sprinkled with barley and rice,
spiced with the gatherings of herbs from gardens near and far,
then served piping hot with bread, tea and thee!
Hmmmm… Grandpa wasn’t related to Nick, was he> I love this piece, especially that last line.
Wow, Bill! That is so cool. My Grandpa called it that because he threw in everything that was leftover from Sunday’s dinner and then some. Never wasted food! I just know it was delicious and made me feel safe, warm and very loved.
I didn’t care what you all wrote about. I was just hungry! 😉 I am sated deliciously through your words, Linda
Sounds like a hearty enough soup to sustain you through winter. Speaking of garbage, we have a pizza place that offers a garbage pie, every topping, plus anchovies if you like them. We usually say, one garbage pie, hold the fish.
Walt and Marie…once again…are we becoming a habit?? – Your words touch me, fill me, delight and sooth me. Comfort food for my soul!!
Oh my goodness, you’re not kidding! ❤ ! I think we are sharing a muse! Love your offering!
Amen to that sentiment.
As are all of you for Marie and I. You nourish us as well! Thank You.
Warmth, Marie Elena, is your hallmark.
Yes Indeed. She cares enough to send the very best!
Poem In October #1
If I could choose
my birthday cake,
it would be made with wild
blackberry jam,and spicy.
Defiant as thorns,
it is naked of sugar flowers
and still warm
from my grandmother’s heart-
Yum, and I love that ending.
Did somebody say cake? You’ve piqued my interest (long after I loved your poem, Barbara)
Oh, mouthwatering, lovely. What a memory. Loved this, Barbara.
Oh, I love this…yes grandmother’s cakes were always the best!
Sounds yummy. Love blackberries in any form. Also, you’ve just reminded me that I have a heart shaped pan. Have to hunt for it.
Barbara, if we lived close, I’d surely cook a birthday dinne4 for you. But we don’t so my good wishes will have to do. And now, the prompt…
Mis en Place
Our new neighbors spy on us,
over the fence,
but I think we’ll soon be friends,
maybe when I cook for them.
Umami is already my friend,
and I like to cook like I mean it.
I’m no gourmet chef,
but I find it a holy thing
to serve food to others.
In some ways, every meal is a miracle,
especially when eaten with friends.
Beauty can be coaxed
out of the ugliest of vegetables,
if the preparation is done mindfully.
It’s all in the details.
I’d draw the line at eggplant, but I love the sentiments of the piece.
Grins. Thanks for the thought.
A true gentleman! Way to go, Daniel!
Daniel, this is great. Wish you were MY neighbor…!
Yes, yes, yes…all in the details!! Love this!
So true, Daniel. Nothing gives me greater pleasure than to cook for friends and family.
A Memory Pie
The ground in my garden is covered
with discarded leaves, a warm blanket
against the freeze to come
there are treasures still to glean
from this faded plot –
some brussel sprouts, a few beets,
and best of all the vines of sugar
pumpkins ,like strands of mandarin garnet,
bits of smooth skinned gems –
destined to be roasted and pureed
mixed with a magical concoction
of cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, cloves
then baked into a pie that holds the
memories of generations
The pie’s not the only magical concoction here; I think the poem qualifies too.
Comforting, and then some! Well done, Candy! (Although I like a little red showing, but that’s just me!)
Candy, always loved the fall veggies in my garden, but never had much luck growing them in the balmy southern fall. But pumpkins, yes. They do well, and were indeed “treasures to glean.”
“Sugar pumpkins with strands like Mandarin garnet” love that description. I am a huge pumpkin fan. In my house now is pumpin soup, pumpkin ravioli, and pumpkin jam.
Oooo … that sounds so good!
Maria, your poem made me want to forage through my fridge for something yummy to heat up!
Walt, there is nothing like homemade soup on a rainy day and your poem is just as comforting!
I’ve really worked up an appetite read everyone’s poems today.
So true, Candy!
Walt, I get the feeling it’s a potato soup, but in any case, the poem sets up aromas, as well as images. Wonderful.
learn to dance,
or a duet
sun filled meadow,
to a stranger,
and ice cream.
I’ll have what she’s having! A delicious poem, Marjory!
Delightful day, and what relaxation is better than that after a study of stars, a dance, a song sung, and a kind gesture. Beautiful, Marjory.
Such lovely words, Marjory.
Mom’s Chicken Noodle Soup
On chilly autumn days,
when we felt under the weather,
Mom would make us chicken noodle soup,
not just any chicken noodle soup.
She’d start with Wyler’s chicken noodle,
the instant packaged kind.
But the tiny Wyler’s noodles
wouldn’t fill a bird’s belly.
She mixed it in with macaroni,
which made it more filling.
The two different textures
did something magical.
I like to think Mom’s noodles
prevented many doctor visits.
I always felt better after eating
this yummy meal.
Funny thing is, I don’t remember
ever making them as an adult
or even giving them to my kids
when they were sick.
By then, I found frozen
but so rich, more often or not,
they gave me a headache.
So now in my retirement years,
it might be a good time
to get out mom’s special recipe
of Wyler’s noodles and macaroni.
Oh Connie, the mix of noodles was the magic I am sure. Beautiful.
You asked and now you know!
If I want warmth and comfort food
there is a soup that suits my mood.
I love split pea with sour cream,
but autumn squash is my new dream..
I love the warmth of broccoli cheese,
and chicken noodle’s sure to please.
Grilled cheese always needs tomato.
Load the goodies on potato.
Beef with barley is tried and true,
Vegetable beef is awesome too.
This homemade bean with ham is great.
Sausage lentil? I just can’t wait!
Chicken tortilla is quite new.
but won-ton is an ancient brew.
Is there a soup that I don’t crave?
No, but I cannot pick a fave.
A soup bar! That is what I need.
That’s satisfaction guaranteed.
Rhyme can be so much fun when applied by an artist. Brava!
Ooooo, soup! Love your rhyming.
Linda, HA! I loved this parade of steaming delights. A slurp of delicious in every couplet.
Connie and Linda, I could eat soup every day and that you both regales us with a steaming bowl you’ll be glad to know we’ll be souping a bit with tomorrow’s prompt. Savory poems, both!
Love the rhyming array of soups, Linda.
Cold’s fingers creeping ’round
outside walls of your house?
Toss salad, ignore ice cream.
Home-baked bread, buttered or dipped
in bowl of beef stew, will rouse.
Warm, cozy at fireside
sipping brandy or cider,
thinking something sweet would sate.
Warm slice of apple crumb pie
will slide down. Nothing finer.
I have not been a good boy, too busy, but I want you to know that I have enjoyed your work recently
Thanks so much, Daniel!
This is just yummy!
Sara, just felt the afghan on my shoulders. Loved it.
A warming comforter only adds to the coziness. Thanks, Damon.
Nothing finer! You paint a scrumptious picture, Sara. Very comforting!
Walt and Marie: These prompts are great, and so are the offerings you two put forth for each of them. And to all that have said nice things about my “stories”, thank you from the bottom of my heart.
From the young and invincible
To the rich and famous
Pride is indiscriminate
Sometimes even undetectable
And definitely unbiased
Pride gets in the way
Tripping even the sharpest
Like shoestrings tied together
And on our face we fall
We’ve all been there
Bloodied and bruised
Some get right back up
Some stay down and whine
Others wonder what hit them
We’ve all heard it said that
Pride comes before the fall
Yet we dare it to trip us up
We dare it to do us in
And when it knocks us down
We blame everything else
Sometimes we even blame God
But it’s not His fault; it’s ours
And we should admit it and accept
Nice take on the prompt!
Earl, critical insight in this poem. Humility is a treat that many more of us should eat.
Words to take to heart, my friend! Another offering for our hearts and souls. Thank you Earl!
Ahh Walt, Marie. This warmth is welcomed, especially since we just had our first “reliable” cold front come thru down here. Your blooms were beautiful, comforting for sure.
Thanks Damon. We try to bring our “A” game so that you all can provide your finest poems (and you all do!)
Mom’s Hunting Stew
Oh, from the cupboard,
while we were in the woods,
seasons came and went
into Mom’s dutch oven,
on potatoes, celery, onions, carrots,
and browned cubes of last year’s deer.
Salt and pepper, garlic, bay,
gathered into a
V-8 tomato base.
The seasons came, and simmered,
in a bath of contentment,
comfort went wafting upward
toward the oven hood,
issued by a humming vent into kitchen air,
simmered ‘til a red foam puree
floated gently over all.
Oh, from the cupboard of memories,
warmth of comfort
from the flavors of life,
the aromas of
© Damon Dean, 2018
The aromas of well done love! The perfect description of what a bowl of that steaming broth holds. And if that isn’t comfort, I don’t know what is, Damon!
I like the description of a red foam purée gently floating over all.
Yes. That’s when you know this stew is ready. It’s absolutely my favorite. With cornbread.
Walt and Marie, your poems continue to inspire. Autumn PAD was a wonderful idea.
Glad you are enjoying it, Sara, et al. We sort of missed the boat on our July PAD, but the shorter two-week trial leads us into November’s finery. Be inspired. It works better that way!
I sit every morning in an old plaid chair
spring, summer, winter fall,
(shh…I love them all)
no matter the season,
for every and any reason,
through tears and laughter,
broken dreams and ever afters,
carrying my every concern and care
to the One who faithfully meets me there.
Slowly I feast upon the Bread of Life
finding comfort from difficulties and strife.
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