Best Sourdough Poems
Anything but bread
I bumped into a man named Fred
And listened to each word he said
A story I was soon to dread
For all he talked about was bread
In detail he spoke every slice
Some made of wheat and some of rice
There’s cinnamon and sugar spice
And sourdough he mentioned twice
Banana nut he found so sweet
The perfect early morning treat
With coffee as you take a seat
To bake it though, a major feat
He chronicled each rim of crust
A lighter tan or darker rust
Or sprinkled with a pepper dust
I guess somehow he thought he must
When then he changed and featured toast
I think it’s what he liked the most
I can’t believe how he could boast
He’d tell his tale from coast to coast
I told him I was running late
I had a very special date
A meeting and it couldn’t wait
I headed out beyond the gate
I started walking down the trail
He didn’t stop, I heard him wail
“Be careful of the loaves on sale,
you’ll usually find that they are stale”
Into a café I then fled
And thought about that man named Fred
When asked to order, this I pled
“Just bring me anything but bread”
Inspired by Maureen McGreavy’s Baker’s Dozen poetry contest
That’ll teach me to read the rules first. : )
Categories:
sourdough, food, fun,
Form:
Rhyme
COOKING WITH JIM
actually, with him in spirit, in the kitchen
of his quaint brownstone on West 12th Street
in Manhattan, decades after his death.
And quite at home with him, I chop and slice;
bake, twice-baked potatoes — their skins crisping
to perfection; roast, the prime tenderloin of beef
he’d earlier instructed me to hand-rub with
coarsely ground black pepper and kosher salt.
(I used sea salt and that was ok with him.)
Right now, he’s reminding me to stir my roux,
then I should add the crisp bacon bits, made earlier,
to the finely chopped spinach I just finished sautéing.
He says I should wait till the last minute
to toss the mélange of local field greens with
the lemongrette he had me make in lieu of
vinaigrette, because, it seems that vinegar
often spoils the taste of wine. As for the wines
with dinner: for the salad, I’m chilling
a 2011 Seyval Blanc from New York State;
with the beef dish, a 10-year-old California
Zinfandel; this followed by a 2010 Pinot Noir
from Oregon, paired with artisanal cheeses
from Vermont and Connecticut, plus
crisp sourdough rolls and flatbread;
and, in the frig, chilling, a late-harvest, Long Island
Riesling to complement the secret confection hidden
away on a silver tray till dessert-time.
According to Jim, red wine should be served at
room temperature, and since older reds have a layer
of sediment in the bottle, he said the Zin will need
to be decanted, and that, right before serving;
he wants the Pinot to breathe 15 minutes, or so,
in the glass before being drunk.
(The aeration of younger reds will rid those wines of
their chalky tasting tannins.) All this for my guests
who’ll soon be sitting round my dining table akin to
Jim’s 60 inch round green marble slab of a tabletop,
where, before the first bite of the Jim-inspired,
5-star meal, I’ll raise my glass to the big bald guy —
James Beard, “The Father of American Cuisine.”
Categories:
sourdough, food,
Form:
Verse
Grandma was a firefighter woman
For most of the 1960s--
When she was already in her sixties
You see, around about 1961
A brush fire almost burned down
Kanarraville—that little Utah farming town.
The men farmed or worked outside of town,
And there were no firehouses very near.
So the postmistress said “Sisters, volunteer!”
Housewives and mothers heard the call,
About 20 or so ladies in all
Were trained to put those fires down.
My grandparents ran the Ranch Café--
(Famous for their sourdough biscuits)
A classic mom-and-pop business.
When the old fire engine sputtered by,
Thelma would stop making pumpkin pie,
Toss her apron, and be on her way.
An all-women’s volunteer fire department
Was really unique--quite the novelty.
Papers mentioned them around the country.
Nothing could keep those old ladies down,
Except the expansion of the town;
Which eventually had a paid fire department.
Yes, the old gals put out their last fire.
The Ranch Café is gone, and so are they,
But those firefighters are remembered today.
I can still imagine Grandma then,
Riding on that obsolete fire engine,
In her fireman’s hat and waitress attire.
Categories:
sourdough, fire, grandmother, hero, tribute,
Form:
Well I declare...the days are growing shorter
And this day was just as warm as was July.
Heat makes me lazy and the time just slipped away.
Woe is me...but the whole day flitted by.
Well, golly gee, with pears and apples falling,
It's time to get my canning kettle out.
The wildlife will come calling if fruit is on the ground.
There are some pests that I don't want about.
The raccoon got my grapes this last October.
I'm trying to keep some of them this year.
I saved them from the birds, but the raccoons came in herds.
And all that I could harvest was a tear.
Pear butter, apple sauce and Concord grape jam,
Would look so pretty on my shelves in wintertime.
The way I like jam most is on my sourdough toast,
To nibble on when I'm thinking up a rhyme.
Oh, foolish me, the football game is starting.
I will have to put my canning jars away.
We've waited many a year for a football team to cheer.
I am sure the fruit can wait another day.
9/7/14
Categories:
sourdough, football, fruit,
Form:
Rhyme
Grab a wooden spoon, and choose a mixing bowl
A breakfast that is piping hot is worth its weight in gold!
You can make them by the dozens, or one or two will do
Make them for your next of kin, or neighbors you have got
Even for those teenage boys, ...(the ones who eat a lot!)
Let's see you fry a stack of cakes that tower on the plate
The stack is high,...but folks will sigh with happiness inside
So get the griddle piping hot, and warm syrup too
And don't forget a pot of jam and marmalade is good!
Applesauce, gets an A+ ,.......and often gets applause!
Yes you can! Whip some up.....it's as easy fix to do
No need to go to I-Hop. Just make them on the spot
Wake them up to something yummy
Fill a tummy, make 'em happy, maple syrup needs some sopping
Buckwheat makes the grumpy jolly, just stir the lumps out 'til there's none
And someone's sour mood is gone, when sourdough is stacked at dawn
Flapjacks wake the sleepyheads, before they run straight out the door
They'll turn right back to have some more .....three or four, or five or six
Butter oozing down the sides, sticky syrup glazing eyes.....mouths will water
hear the laughter.....add some nuts, or raisin eyes, make a face a big surprise
Yum! Yum! Yum! M & M's add some fun, and add a chocolate prize!
And if you dare, to be so bold
Flip your flapjack, pan-fried gold.....Just grab and hold your frying pan
It 's in the grip, ......then flip ! You can !!! And if you're lucky it will land
upon the plate........not on the floor, across the room,......
but one mistake......, just mop it up, and try it all again!
Practice tennis while you're at it,...Ping pong too...., and batter-up.....
Up it goes........and down it comes........Something yummy for your tummy
Pancake's, flapjacks .......hotcakes, hoecakes..
Pick your favorite, flip them high........ make them small or any size
Make a ton........!!! It's worth a try !
__________________________________________________
For Didactic Food Contest: sponsored by Tammy Reams
10/5/15
Categories:
sourdough, food, fun, funny,
Form:
Didactic
Durin' my nearly four-score years I've had many a grand repast,
But there's one delicacy that will never, ever be surpassed!
There ain't nothin' like a huge helpin' of luscious fried chicken!
Ah, just thinkin' about it makes my pulse begin to quicken!
Mom was an expert at preparin' a bird for the old iron fryin' pan.
The hapless fowl was beheaded and plucked in the shortest span,
Cut up, seasoned and fried before you could count to ten,
Leavin' the old rooster crowin' in bewilderment sans one hen!
The preacher made his periodic visits for dinner at our house.
Mom's admonition to us kids beforehand always made me grouse.
Sayin', "Let the preacher help himself to the choicest parts!"
So we kids usually ended up with the necks, gizzards and hearts!
If I was asked to plan a dinner menu, here's what it would be:
Heaps of fried chicken, mashed pertaters, gravy and iced tea,
Sourdough biscuits, garden fresh carrots and sweet spring peas,
And for dessert a huge slab of cherry pie ala mode, if you please!
Nowadays the Colonel touts chicken from San Diego to Nantucket,
With all the fixin's in a box, bag or a handy two-gallon bucket,
Spicy or original and fried in lots of grease to a crispy, golden brown,
But I prefer my spouse's southern fried 'cause it's the best in town!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Categories:
sourdough, food, funny, old, old,
Form:
Rhyme
Poet: Ken Jordan
Poem: Tailgate Party
Edited by: Sparkle Jordan
written: January/2015
It's my
tailgate party
you're welcome
to come -
Music's blasting,
and
We
Popp'in
Champagne,
around
a hot
Webber Grill
In the
parking lot -
Got my
game day apron
on,
Cook'n:
Oak wood Q'd
Baby Back
Ribs,
Slow grilled
and
smoked....
Brushed
in
Sweet Hickory
BBQ sauce -
and
laced with
a
half cup
of
Jim Beam
Whiskey -
Child
this party
is Popp'in
Got
a Deep Pot
of
Baked Beans;
Maple flavored,
with
Thick Center
Cut
beacon strips
(smoked),
over
Natural Flavored
Mesquite
Wood Chips.
Child
you better
get here,
cause It's on!
Got my
Old Fashioned
Homemade
Potato Salad,
(chilled
to taste),
with
thin sliced
Black Olives -
Sweet Yellow
Corn (on cob),
precooked in
milk/honey,
then grilled
and
brushed
with
lemon or lime
juice
in
butter,
sprinkled
with
parsley flakes.
Yum! Yum! Yum!
You ain't here
yet?
I'm making
Sourdough grilled
bread,
with
a soft melt
of
Castello Reserved
Havarti cheese -
Cucumber Infused
water
over
crushed ice,
with a hint
of
Mint Leaf
flavor -
And
if you dare
to
step outside
your
comfort zone,
I have some
Angry Orchard
Hard Apple
Cider
over ice
in
the cooler -
My tailgate
party
is
Popp'n !
It's Game Time
Bon Appetite !
Categories:
sourdough, food, football, happy,
Form:
Prose
pizza
doughy mixture
cheesy gooey stretching
bakers oven homestyle freshly
sourdough
Categories:
sourdough, family, food, children, health,
Form:
Cinquain
This old farmhouse kitchen
could tell its thrifty tales
of hard times, making do,
making bread from nothing –
snatching life out of air…
Snatching life out of air,
she turns wheat and water
to ferment by the stove,
and molds it with her hands
into tart, golden loaves.
Categories:
sourdough, food, life,
Form:
Verse
High noon sun would soon turn
Her petite, ruddy face into one freckle
She rubbed the juice from a fresh lime
Across her brow so the bangs might bleach
The white sand brushed the strand
and aquamarine surf that cut a split on the Caye
reflected mint green off the lens of her Wayfarers
Almost lathered in coconut oil
Her cutis emitted the scent of sandalwood
And warm mackeroons
Her smile hinted of a sweet, pitted apricot
Its puckered core with eyes closed
Waiting for that first kiss
That would never come
I met her in the morning last week
On the corner of happy and chirpy
The day she tossed her cookies in the street
And swore off cashew wine and meat pie
Her tummy hadn’t been the same since;
The because of a picnic basket brimming
With plain yogurt and sourdough sticky buns
“Look at that phosphorescent fish” she exclaimed
Spurting seawater that had backed up
in the snorkel tube into my eyes, her mask
catawampus across her cheeks
“I think you mean fluorescent” retorted I
“it is all the same” she beamed
And smacked her face back into the water
I couldn’t help but chuckle
And dove down so she would not notice
Shadows off the palm leaves told me
It was time to head back to the water taxi
With what remained of her chartreuse
Lipstick, she now resembled a fried crustacean
It made me hungry and I longed for croutons
She either talked or sang something like
A muzzled version of Del Shannon’s “Down in the Boondocks”
The entire trip
When we docked her now blond locks
Sheared her rostrum and her
White teeth winked at me
Oh my …. Shall I say goodbye?
Categories:
sourdough, adventure, beach, humorous,
Form:
Light Verse
A slow cooked roast with baked potato
Soft spread butter and sliced sourdough
Steamed baby carrots with peas
A-1 Steak Sauce and jellies
Apple pie, cooling by the window
Her way of letting me know, there was a sale at Macy's.
It always worked!
Categories:
sourdough, food
Form:
Limerick
Bread and Butter showed up first,
thank God, with bread and butter
(we hadn't any food out yet).
They had flown in from Detroit
on a real time-crunch.
Then the Gherkins arrived
Pushing through and eating
Half the sourdough and margarine.
Total Gherks.
The cornichons arrived soon after,
slightly smaller than gherkins
and with French accents.
They stood against the back wall
smoking cigarettes.
The limes ubered over,
Sour looks on their faces
while handing us egg salad.
Their driver got lost
Putting them in a real pick-
Oh here comes an army of Hungarians,
They had been sun basking all day,
Their conversations crisp and witty.
Must be all that vitamin D.
Ahhh the Dills, speaking of d's.
They're royalty here.
Everyone's clapping,
Which is hard to do for a pickle.
Oh Kosher was right behind the Dills
and we didn't notice.
Hope that's not a big dill.
Now I smell them. Garlic.
What's that?
Germans have been waiting in the hallway?
I told them skinless is fine.
They found my terminology "unappealing?"
Cumberto, send some herring out for them, anyhow.
Welcome full sour,
welcome half sour,
and the newborn,
Little quarter sour.
Now take those looks
off your faces
and have a seat.
Last but not least,
the hot pickles,
always late,
soooo popular.
Well, thank-you all for coming
We have herring, potato salad,
Bread and butter, we have baseball
pickle highlights on the tube on a loop and-
Oh!
One more guest I see,
Kool-Aid, of course,
Cuz that's a thing.
Try the vinegar dip,
And please don't stain my couch red.
Categories:
sourdough, food,
Form:
Free verse
This is a poem about me My name I Tricia
I don't like being me cause I am sick in the head
I have had brain surgery and it makes it hard to spell and ryme
And in poetry we all know these are thing that are a must
And having said this I must confess that spell check can't help with word unless you
get enough letter for help and if not you are just SOL
Before I got sick I was quite quick with my wit
But the doctor zig when he shoud have zag and scrammled my egg
So there just ain't enough sourdough starter to make my bread rise anymore
I struggle with every poem I turn out and if it places I am happy
But if not I don't write to win I won when I posted I complete
So if you see a poem by me think that she has had a hard time in getting it here
If you do decide to read be a dear
Comment without care I wear BIG GIRL PANITES you can knock them down
If you dare I will just pull them back up, climb on my high horse, and write away
Tricia
9/12/2014
Categories:
sourdough, allusion, betrayal, cute love,
Form:
pizza and beer, hot summer breezes
marinara flavor, and melted cheeses
sourdough knows how to navigate my soul
pizza pie is my food goddess idol
soft with a hint of warmth, freshness absorbed
one bite and oh lord, a believer is born
out the oven, 510 degrees, cut on the stone
save a piece, foodie lovin, just me at home
i will eat this till none, newcastle havin fun
watch a setting sun, shadows start to run
things i live for, pleasures that keep me awake
refreshing brews, and a homemade pizza to bake
Categories:
sourdough, drink, food, happy, nice,
Form:
Rhyme
I pity those who can’t eat bread
But opt for gluten-free instead
For sourdough with hardened crust
And slathered butter is a must.
A bagel topped with lots of seeds
Is all a body really needs
Or onion rolls that softly squish
To complement most any dish.
A loaf of rye with caraway
Or garlic knots can make my day
And pumpernickel, deeply brown,
Has never ever let me down.
A fresh-baked challah, ripped apart,
Then dipped in sauce – be still, my heart!
Focaccia’s another treat
That must be sad to never eat.
I could go on and on, you know,
Expounding on the joys of dough.
For me, the truth is absolute –
There really is no substitute!
Categories:
sourdough, food,
Form:
Rhyme