creative ramblings & reverie

Tuesday, February 28, 2012

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.


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