Chacun à son goût

Chacun à son goût,

my father always liked to say,

having been a French major

in Missoula, Montana

and man of decided tastes.

Those ran to

crumpets with milkshakes

up in British Columbia

since he detested tea,

Tanqueray martinis

on the riverbank at Pecos

near the Indian ruins

in a thunderstorm,

Manhattan deli style

pastrami sandwiches

with horseradish mustard

and kosher dill pickles

across from the Santa Fe library

most Saturdays

after mowing the lawn

and before the Met broadcast,

green chili and pork

wrapped in the Norwegian lefse

my mother made, instead of

white “library paste” tortillas,

huckleberry pie in Yellowstone

after helping to pick a bowl of

lively purple berries in the woods

(big grin of ecstasy across his face),

chocolate quite anywhere,

his good cheese sandwiches,

smoked oysters, pickled pigs’ feet,

espresso he brewed for himself,

and those godgiven eggs he got

in the bar in upcountry Kamuela

with his fellow Marines that Christmas

after the November landing on Tarawa.

—Christie