On Remembering

I found out today, via a strange and complicated series of events, that someone I cared a great deal about, but had lost touch with, died in December 2007. He was 30 when he died. His name was Jeremy.

My memories of Jeremy aren't really of food - I think he was a vegetarian, and I'm pretty sure I teased him about that, and many other facets of his hippy personality. We had quite a few drinks quite often, usually whiskey, possibly gin. He was a PhD student while I was an undergrad, and he let me substitute for his poetry classes once. He encouraged my poetry, and would sneakily let me help cull the bad poems out of the submissions to the journal he worked on, though I suspect he rechecked my cull pile because our tastes were different.

We really cared for each other, and fell out of touch when we both moved, which is the story of my life, that and procrastination. Hearing of his death reminded me that this is it - the only life I'm guaranteed, and I need to do something with it.

The friend I lost in October also died young and tragically. Cynthia was the kind of woman who did everything - she volunteered, she mentored, she played an instrument, she was a devoted yoga student, she was an amazing baker, she was great at her job, and she was active in her church. I'm also certain I'm missing something. She did, and did well. Its that doing that I want to take away from these people, who left the world a little less full. I've got somethings to say, about food, about poetry, about reproductive rights, about education, about justice for women. I want these memories to remind me to actually say it.

No food this time, just thoughts. Just grief.

On Potatoes and Poetry

So, by now, you all probably know how I feel about the potato. I translated parts of this post into a poem. I thought I'd share, brave little soul that I am.

Potato

Humble, on the counter top,
waiting for the scrub,
the knife, the boil, the oven.
A little hero, ready to sacrifice,
to take what the world
throws at it:
salt, cheese, butter, rosemary,
and on a bad day, gravy.
Ready to rescue us from
hangovers, colds, and the cruelest
of moods, the potato presents
itself, in the vegetable bowl,
a little friend, ready to spend
the night because we are lonely,
to let us stay over on a
rainy morning, to pour us a drink
and watch some bad television.
The potato does not expect
our repentance for lying
about the Visa bill, for letting
the ivy die, for not washing
the gym clothes.
The potato is forgiveness for being
human, and for much lesser
sins, dug up,
dusted off, and given to us.

On March

March is here. And in decided contrast to a lot of February, which had its shockingly warm days, it has decided to dawn cold and harsh. March has given up sunlight for Lent.

In honor of March, a poem that thematically would have been more appropriate in February, but actually never fit then.

February

Winter. Time to eat fat
and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat,
a black fur sausage with yellow
Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries
to get onto my head. It's his
way of telling whether or not I'm dead.
If I'm not, he wants to be scratched; if I am
he'll think of something. He settles
on my chest, breathing his breath
of burped-up meat and musty sofas,
purring like a washboard. Some other tomcat,
not yet a capon, has been spraying our front door,
declaring war. It's all about sex and territory,
which are what will finish us off
in the long run. Some cat owners around here
should snip a few testicles. If we wise
hominids were sensible, we'd do that too,
or eat our young, like sharks.
But it's love that does us in. Over and over
again, He shoots, he scores! and famine
crouches in the bedsheets, ambushing the pulsing
eiderdown, and the windchill factor hits
thirty below, and pollution pours
out of our chimneys to keep us warm.
February, month of despair,
with a skewered heart in the centre.
I think dire thoughts, and lust for French fries
with a splash of vinegar.
Cat, enough of your greedy whining
and your small pink bumhole.
Off my face! You're the life principle,
more or less, so get going
on a little optimism around here.
Get rid of death. Celebrate increase. Make it be spring.

~Margaret Atwood, from the book Morning in the Burned House