Vol 5, Num 16 :: 2006.09.08 — 2006.09.22
Like a hundred other things, I came late
To falafel, like modern Hebrews did
In that great gathering in to forge a state,
Fast taking them up, as if in a bid
For credibility, hoping chick peas
And spice and bread might feed a dream, a wish
To be at home, at peace, within the East,
Make memories of borscht, geflite fish.
So they learned from brother Mizrahim,
More distantly from Arab brother foes,
The tricks to soak and mash and fry, to thin
With lemons tahini sauce. Oh, if woes
Could be forgotten over meals, I know
The wonder of falafel might make it so.
I have not had to soak and mash, a mix
Makes short work of tasks that once took a day.
I wonder whether I will ever fix
My hours to learn from process, to be paid
With well-won satisfaction and with taste
Of long ages. But even now as I
Lift up my knife to dice with worried haste
I taste a piece of cucumber and sigh.
Feeling its coolness on my tongue, I dream
Of coolness only half-remembered now,
In evening, in a Garden, near a stream.
I wake, and read my box and wonder how
A food that's kosher, vegan, and halal
Could do anything but unite us all.
It is really not all that hard to see
As I strain grease from well-browned batter
Why it is that these bring delight and glee.
It's grease! It's batter! You see those matter
In culture after culture. Think funnel cake.
Think Najavo fry bread and pakoras.
They all take work, but aren't that hard to make
They're market treats that take on even more
Wonder when made at home and children press,
Impatient around their mothers, like pups
Outside Old South kitchens. I clean my mess
And think of harder things, of shattered cups
And shattered lives and dreams. It's hard to keep
My thoughts on falafel while Beirut weeps.
your comments
comments powered by Disqus