Today, a poem:

blanching, by R----- R--

The other day, I was cooking onions
for my husband, blanching them in the wok--
a process wherein we wait for the meat
of the onions to clarify, to turn clear

and I move them against the pot's hot edges, I stir
with a slow spoon. And I begin to cry
so that the room begins to slowly unpeel
like a papery onion, and I can think

of nothing but of what the world tastes
like--
ya know?
like--

I put down the spoon--crosswise, across
the blanching onions and I wander the house
shoeless--
naked
tasting
the edges of furniture, lampshades, gnawing
on the edges of air hockey tables. I need
the perfect ingredient
--something
that tastes like what I need

and I find him sleeping, the shutters drawn
the smell of the onion omelette inside of his skin--
awake and dreaming in the yellow pores
and I bite
his hair, his fingernails, his ear--the ingredients of him
until the room unpeels
like an onion,
which has turned clear.

--A---------- Q--

They certainly hadn’t planned it that way. But driving along the long rolling highway at three pm, Rachael burst forth brightly from the backseat: “Oh, we’ve really got to stop there, do you see that sweet little farmhouse? The sign says pie! Don’t you have the munchies just a little bit?”

Mike, the driver/cameraman (the foodnetwork couldn’t afford both) rolled his eyes. He didn’t complain, however; he liked pie.

Rachael sighed bubbly: “I remember when I was younger and my sister and I used to eat day-old cake from the bakery after school. Somehow driving just made us so hungry and we could never wait until we got home, we would just take turns shifting so we could stuff our faces with...”

“Oh come on,” Mike goaded. “We already heard that one on Chefography.” Mike knew the story because he had filmed that segment, too. He remembered how picky Rachael had been about the body double he cast for the shifting scene reenactment. “God what a b*#$@…” he accidentally let slip.

Rachael looked glum only for a moment. She perked up quickly when Mike took the left exit off of route 7 and turned down the gravel drive where the painted sign was pointing. This trip wasn’t part of the plan because they hadn’t even made it to Columbus for the State Fair yet; Rachael was always getting side-tracked somewhere. Then again, Mike couldn’t blame her for wanting to spend all forty of her dollars so promiscuously and profusely.

At the end of the long drive there was an orchard and the green-shuttered farmhouse. “I wonder what type of pies they have!” Rachael exclaimed, “It looks so quaint! Like they really know how to bake a mean sour cherry!” Mike had already bolted from the front seat; barely putting the green honda minivan in gear.

A woman in a floral apron greeted the pair from the broad wooden porch, grandmotherly arms open wide in welcome. “What can I get for you, dearies?” she queried. “Today’s special is Pecan’N’Peach.” Mike’s camera was rolling, his stomach growling.

“Ah, but how much do the pies cost?” Rachael arched one eyebrow, smirking curiously into the camera.

“How much ya got?” The old woman rejoined. “These here pies been baking since four-o-clock in the morning! The crust is kneaded by hand for three hours each day and the peaches are sweet and golden as geese! I’ll tell you what though—since you look so sweet yourself I’ll make a deal. One ENTIRE Martha Joä pie, farm fresh and piping-hot from the oven for the penny-pinching price of only forty dollars.”

Mike gasped. “I’ll take it!” Rachael cried, “Today there shall be nothing but pie!!” She grinned horribly and Mike recoiled from the brilliantly evil glint in her eyes.

In less than two minutes flat, Martha Jo returned with a basketball sized pecan pie and a half-gallon of heavy whipping cream. She deposited the delectable items on the polished wooden surface separating the seated Rachael and Mike; the pie dropped with a densely heavy thud.

The smell of sweet carmelized sugar and warm brandy-cured peaches filled the air as syrupy juices bubbled oozingly from the golden-brown and perfectly flaky crust. “Bon Apetit!” Martha Jo grunted, smiling wildly and handing her two victims patrons gigantic forks.

Mike kept the camera rolling, struggling against the intense aroma. Mesmerized, Rachael uttered incoherently: “This, looks…mmmm…sooo…” and proceeded to carve into the baked behemoth. Without hesitating, she scooped out a steaming glob of pecan’n’peach flesh and drew the sweet mess slowly towards her lips, mouth open and eyes shining as if suspended between ecstasy and despair.
--K.R.

The Seattle weather was gloomy--clouds scummed low above the brackish sea that tossed and wracked against the pilings of the pier.

But Rachael's smile was sunny as she walked along the wharf. "C'mon guys!" she said, beckoning with her small, thick arm. "Let's go check it out!"

With forty dollars in the back pocket of her flared khaki capris, Rachael was ready for anything. But rain.

"Bummer, man" she said, "But no matter! Let's head inside!"

The Rusty Scupper was the type of place frequented by mariner types--throwbacks to an era where razors were knives and the mirror you shaved before was the glinting tin of a shipboard toaster. It smelled vaguely of beer, the iron tang of fish blood, and the heavy odor of lived-in bodies: all along the slim bar that ran the length of the dingy, pub-brawl place, the mariners sat moored below cups of sour coffee. It was early in the day, but the ashtrays were full. The man behind the counter looked up from the wet rag he was rubbing in slow circles to see Rachael.

"Well, Hello there, what can I offer?"

"I'll have a plate of the haddock," Rachael said. But she turned from him. She turned from him as women have always turned from him.

She turned from him to the absent friend, standing invisible beside her, and stage-whispered:

"At $7.50 for a plate of the freshest fish you can find, this place is a deal! With 32.50 left in the bank, I can afford to grab a glass of their ice-cold lemonade."

The men watched her, as she sat on the stool by the door, pretending to watch the scene outside the Scupper's plate glass window, but really watching the faces of the other men in the mirrored reflection behind the bar.

When the Haddock arrived it was a painting of oil. Silvery, grey fishes glinting on the bed of a blank paper plate. Rachael sighed. She turned toward the absent friend and said:

"This looks GREAT!" With subtle, flashing movements of her knife, she cut a chunk of fish, held it aloft on her fork, looked at it for a long pause, shoved it into her mouth, chewed pensively for a two-second pause, and said, facing no one:

"THIS IS ABSOLUTELY GREAT. DIVINE!" She smiled, her mouth full, her eyes bright as the eyes of a baby fawn.