A bunch of JVUF’s Lincoln leeks (named after Abe) will be our inspiration this week at the Pepper Place and East Lake farmers markets.
The high temperature’s only going to be in the 80s, so we hope to see you there. We’ll also have a writing booth at the McWane Science Center from noon till 4 p.m. (There’s air conditioning there.)
Until then, a leek poem:
My Mother’s Leek Pudding
by Linda France
My mother did it in secret in our kitchen,
wreathed in vapours of steam and grease.
The yellow Venetian blinds lowered their eyes.
She did it quickly as if to get it over with,
as if it was nothing, an invisible art.
And because she hated cooking. Because
she hated eating. That thing you did
between cigarettes. Hard to swallow.
Atora, Atora, Atora the packet whispered.
When I looked again it was all puff
and billow, a glassy sheen on the soft mound,
the sweet fragrance of leeks, my mother’s glasses
all misted up.
So now I’m having trouble letting my hands
do what they have to without me getting
in the way, muttering vegetarian, low fat,
and making a fist of it. My kitchen’s as small
as hers but there’s room enough for her
to come back and show me how to sift the flour
and butter the dish, how to wrap the dough
round the green treasure of the leeks
like a white quilt, plump it up like pillows;
for us to work out together the best way
to steam it with something like love. Invisible
till it’s risen and on the table to feed you.
