Tuesday, September 18, 2012

twelve bar, soft and vulgar

the night slipped in lavender
and blossomed from muddy pillow talk.
sluggish tempos
played by sensual things
fierce things --
spinning sheets and tangled lashes;
rows of lashes, in double mirrors.
her collar bone protruded,
laughing, protruding
laughing.

e. chayes






















Wednesday, September 12, 2012

foie gras for thought

I supposed my time here would be spent in the kitchen, pondering things in broken Italian and chopping piles of verdant greens. Instead, I ended up here. Marked by aged wood and its English name (famous among Varese locals for 37 years), The Golden Egg was a panini shop that could have easily been mistaken for a closet.
A hefeweizen-stained mug with a handle so thick it ached the space between my fingers accompanied me on the only bench in the room. A mahogany-eyed man called my name loudly (from few feet away) with the rollercoaster intonation typical of Sicily, and handed me my panino. I bit into the crispy sourdough shell and found foie gras, funghi, prosciutto, and an awakening blanket of senape.
It was not at all what I expected -- the sandwich, or Italy -- though I try not to hold expectations when it comes to any bill of fare. At first it was good, really good. Complex, completely new; yet comfortable from the ingredients' isolated acquaintances, on previous occasions, with my taste buds.
As the flavors settled and my tongue pushed, to the roof of my mouth, a salty film similar to -- if you've ever devoured, as I did on the floor of my kitchen at age five -- a raw hot dog, I felt it time to swallow my unrequited expectations.
With each sip of beer, I wanted to export myself from Italy back to my roots. Back through Germany where the people, like myself, are as tall and pale as their ales. Back through England -- allowing Europe to linger as the perfumes of a meal linger in a living room filled with satiated bellies and hungry minds.
I wanted to swallow myself into the comfort of some East Coast kitchen where my palate could be spry and seasoned with experience.

e. chayes