Joan Leotta
Recipe for a Summer Supper
After my watering has slaked
their thirst, before searing heat
can shrivel them, sun ripens my
tomatoes. Using seeds saved
carefully from past crops,
these range in color from yellow to deep red-brown,
irregular in size and shape.
My nose and fingers
know when, still warm from
consorting with the sun, these fruits
will fall into my hand to join
a profusion of Genoa basil
in my basket.
On the kitchen counter, my
knife chops several garlic
cloves, and the tomatoes into submission.
I wash the basil, shred its soft fragrant
leaves into the bowl, add salt and olive oil.
Cover. Let it sit while I watch
our children play outside.
Later, when I add the warm pasta it will
refresh and absorb the flavors, transforming
garden abundance into a
succulent summer supper to be
enjoyed on the back porch
our laughter and chatter providing
the final and most important seasoning.
Pie by Another Name
A few over-ripe
peaches beg to be sliced,
dusted with cornstarch
brown sugar, nutmeg, then
removed to the succor
of a single crust
laid onto a flat pan where
I overlay all with pats
of sweet butter.
My baker-trained fingers
I twist the edges to hold
in peachy goodness, then
bake, this oddly-shaped
concoction.
Leftover peaches baked in
misshapen dough--
taste better when called,
galette.
Joan Leotta is a writer and story performer. Her poems have been published in The Lake, on The Short Humor Site, the A-3 Review, Hobart Review, PineSong, the Ekphrastic Review, and many other journals in the UK. Her work has been read at the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford, England. Her essays, articles, and short stories are also widely published. On stage she tells folk and personal tales of food, family, and strong women.
After my watering has slaked
their thirst, before searing heat
can shrivel them, sun ripens my
tomatoes. Using seeds saved
carefully from past crops,
these range in color from yellow to deep red-brown,
irregular in size and shape.
My nose and fingers
know when, still warm from
consorting with the sun, these fruits
will fall into my hand to join
a profusion of Genoa basil
in my basket.
On the kitchen counter, my
knife chops several garlic
cloves, and the tomatoes into submission.
I wash the basil, shred its soft fragrant
leaves into the bowl, add salt and olive oil.
Cover. Let it sit while I watch
our children play outside.
Later, when I add the warm pasta it will
refresh and absorb the flavors, transforming
garden abundance into a
succulent summer supper to be
enjoyed on the back porch
our laughter and chatter providing
the final and most important seasoning.
Pie by Another Name
A few over-ripe
peaches beg to be sliced,
dusted with cornstarch
brown sugar, nutmeg, then
removed to the succor
of a single crust
laid onto a flat pan where
I overlay all with pats
of sweet butter.
My baker-trained fingers
I twist the edges to hold
in peachy goodness, then
bake, this oddly-shaped
concoction.
Leftover peaches baked in
misshapen dough--
taste better when called,
galette.
Joan Leotta is a writer and story performer. Her poems have been published in The Lake, on The Short Humor Site, the A-3 Review, Hobart Review, PineSong, the Ekphrastic Review, and many other journals in the UK. Her work has been read at the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford, England. Her essays, articles, and short stories are also widely published. On stage she tells folk and personal tales of food, family, and strong women.