Note From Editor
Hello! Happy August! I love that it is the 8th month of the year, and it’s We Have Food’s 8th issue. Today, we bring you poems from not one, but two poets! Each of these poems hold a warm place in my heart as they continue the theme of finding home in food—and then recreating memories. They center on creating warm memories over the summer—inspired by the poets’ families. Let Jigeesha warm you with bubbling congee, and follow Purbasha through tales of spinach leaves and tal palm.
I hope you are enjoying this tail end of summer. What are some summer food memories you have?
Best,
Padya
Jigeesha Mukherjee
Jigeesha (she/her) is a PhD student in Canada working with mushrooms (not the edible kind). She loves experimenting with food, taking naps with cats, going to art galleries to find inspiration for poetry and listening to BTS songs. When she is not tripping over the ice on her porch, she quite ironically tries (her mostly failed) attempts at ice skating. Her poetry explores society and satire and sometimes borrows scientific jargon from her research.
The quintessential winter afternoon soup: A starter pack to loving myself
Full. A table for four, plates and pots and cups, one to my name too. Arranged, ready, spoiled for choice to pick and choose from. Baba says there must be at least two side dishes to go with dal- one fried, one mashed and a little something to dip the ‘fulko luchis’ into. Now, several countries over, I sit with afternoon loneliness keeping me company. Running all the way from the bus stop to the door, Winter panting behind, not able to keep up with my urgency to put a pot on the stove. The water gurgles while I dress down. Layer after layer in this wintry city so far from home. Brown boots with sticky snow on the edges, dead grass I’ve managed to uproot and carry with me all the way back. The rice goes in, no need to time or supervise. No need to watch with focused hands on my waist and recall recipe blogs. No. It pretty much cooks itself, dissolving into the bubbling water with a little secret. (MSG: Haiyaaa!!). Empty. I don’t have a dining table for one, let alone for four, But a Snoopy cushion that doubles as one and a bookrest. Snowflakes cling to my window ledge, sneaking in through the gap I refuse to close as a tiny consolation to my claustrophobia. I map out the clouds with my fingertips and trace the light on the floorboard. Where it meets the wall- a bad paintjob, gathered chippings and crooked nails. But I can tell exactly when the sun has moved. Blabber-mouth shadows. Everything turns soft and grey at this hour. The lid dances and calls out. I languidly move the ladle and giggle-whisper “Good soup”. I take out my bowl, with sakura printed in pretty pink- The one I keep for days like this when I need to fill it up, fill me up With the warmth I never knew I would miss. Bubbling conjee goes in. I flinch from the predicted shock of the heat as I carry the bowl and wobble to my make-shift cushion-table. I sprinkle spring onions and ginger juliennes with as much finesse as one starving grad student having breakfast for dinner on a wintry afternoon can. This tiny time-pocket in the day when loving life becomes so easy. With a hot bowl of rice-soup on my lap cushion, reminding me of the home, I made for myself, of how good the sun feels on my shoulder blades turned to the window. This joy- The warmth cupped between my palms, the noisy slurp, the careless splish-splash from my callous grip on the spoon. So so tender and gentle, this afternoon with myself, wiggling my toes in my blanket cocoon- all toasty and happy and I realize over my silly little meal That I’m in love with me enough to soothe the woes of the ones waiting at that table for four, with all the options and choices And a seat left just for me to fill.
Purbasha Roy
Purbasha is a writer from Jharkhand India. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Mascara Literary Review Channel, SUSPECT, Space and Time magazine, Strange Horizons, Acta Victoriana, Pulp Literary Review and elsewhere. Attained second position in 8th Singapore Poetry Contest. Best of the Net Nominee.
Forage of Spice
An argument among some laborers heightened. The whole colony seemed to gather and peep through the narrow lane end they stayed on rent. After pandemics life had just returned to the streets. An Indian summer. A small town. What more perfection needed for 10PM on a sunday night to prove its beauty. Suddenly this chaos, held the colony's attention. I saw this while helping my body gouge the delicateness from air. Inside Mom and sis were sorting raw mangoes for pickles. The shredding, cutting of them in almost triangular shapes last week. Followed by turmeric and salt smear on them. We loved accompanying Mom for this. The acts spreading a tangy taste in the air around us. Like the unruly beats of my heart see you pass by. Without fail the regular hours of giving them suntime. And then this day arrived. Their shift from a bamboo basket to a glass jar. The generous raw mustard oil pour until each piece gets dipped. We in cheery anticipation for the metamorphosis that is to happen each day with the softening, again beneath april sun. Then Mom brought the grounded five spices. She took the long ladle and kept rotating until everything got mixed like they were never separated. Like this life once washed by memories, never remains the same. Then my Mom asked my sis to bring the chili powder. In hurry the bottle fell down her hand and rolled down near me. For a moment I imagined the red color flinched. Like the red traffic signal halting the whole street kinetics. While our busyness subsided, the colony incident too settled. We went to the balcony for relaxation. And saw people whisper in circular groups. Then they watch a guy who is part of the laborers group, stroll. Like ants finishing the last bites of jaggery disturbed by human footfall. My mouth dismissed a huh in the air. The street light flickered. I believed it stamped beneath the invisible paragraph of irony. I signed as witness. Rose in the air, a spicy smell.
Water & Spinach
Before I began this poem, I finished shred of water spinach leaves. Then dipped in water for the soil and sand to settle down. After an hour Maa would pick handfuls of them floating in a deep vessel. And transfer them into a frying pan already heating the mustard oil, garlic slices, dried chili. The leaves and the tender stems make their way to tender down in heat. Not to miss the salt, sprinkled with caution to not populate it with saltiness. And turn it inedible like sea waters. This whole process got me to dream of a lakeside. And the greenery creasing its bank. The cylindrical hollow stem half-contained by dampness seemed decode the mystery of what happens to a body touched by water. I lost my attentiveness again in their trumpet-shaped flowers. What music do they introduce among the sounds of this cosmos. Shards of softness winnowed by wind. From a world that knows no chaos, it reaches the humbleness of kitchens. Adorned with utensils, spices, chimneys how it waits for surrender of veggies for various dishes. And a genderless amalgamation of them to feed the bodies; goodly, godly. I opened the lid and saw the leaves have abandoned the waters their bodies held. The city moves among seasons. A hint of numinous iridescence brimmed my submission. As subtle as the run of clouds I saw once reading river maps.
Tal Palm
Sometimes I remember the way my father blamed me for buying tal palm. To make sweet bitter cutlets is not a simple task. How it's thick skin after removal needs constant shredding for the fibre and the syrup to fall apart. Like butter and milk. Barely ten. I didn't understand the word labor. My mother with no domestic help forever on her quick. When she asked father why he bought it. He pointed towards me to prove his innocence. I was close taking off my socks that had patterns of boats those never met rivers. This incident seems another life. I felt ricocheted between strangeness and receiving. The space synonymous to waking to homelessness. I rummaged the folklore in which grief of autumn leaves while they hug the tree trunk. Without intentions after all these years have multiplied to it. My tongue returns to the bitter sweetness like a paid debt that still seems scrappy.