A velvety creamy bechamel tantalizes the senses
with its complementary cinnamon and nutmeg.
Seasoned meat of choice presented in intricate layers
among lasagna-like noodles of eggplant and zucchini
guarantee an ultimate gourmet party for the palate.
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
No Moussaka Tonight
Eggplant
is scant
Too Much Coleslaw
Cabbage
baggage
A Beggar’s Plea
Carrot?
Share it!
Trendy Veggie
Faddish
Radish
Trendy Veggie 2
Hepper
Pepper
A peppy Dancer
Pepper
Stepper
Baby Veggie
Onion
young one
Easy on the Garnish
Parsley
sparsley
A Leafy Session
Lettuce
met us
Seeds for Teeth
Dental
fennel
Now It’s a Party
Turnip
Turn-up
Dining out this week
dressed my best
and going Greek
was a disaster
dropped my moussaka
and spilled the rest
of my tzatziki
down the chest
of my new dashiki
a messy eater as a child
difficult I always was
instead of chew
I'd inhale because
it's not the thing to do
I'm making my way to Bulgaria
I hear their moussaka is ambrosial
I've tasted the Greek moussaka
the one that's made with eggplant
I hear that fancy Djanny Restaurant
of Sunny Beach is Bulgaria's finest
they favour premium potatoes
I bet it'll make it worth the trip
AP: 3rd place 2025
Soul Dancer
Yes, you are my soul dancer
My moonlight prancer,
My forever rippling brook,
Whose heart you quietly took!
I feel you in my arms right now
With me..kissing your Greek brow.
Right here on the couch~
And too in love, to slouch.
Let's have our Moussaka for dinner
We don't have to fret about being thinner
For we are both forever young
And for that, there is an eternal song
7/27/2018
The 7/27 one, am removing.to prevent duplicates on the site.
4/2/2023
Insipid, tasteless, no excuse,
a texture somewhat like a sponge.
I see it served in ways gourmet,
but they’re not fooling anyone.
My father had a fancy boat,
so elsewhere, we were somewhat poor.
I grew to hate those purple eggs
with no real substance to abhor.
Moussaka was a featured dish;
the smell, an instant cause for grief.
No way to feed a growing boy;
I see the cheese, but where’s the beef?
Try though you may, I’ll not agree;
eggplant is simply not a food.
Pushed by the bean curd industry,
they try to make tofu look good.
My mom had a dish she called leftover soup;
I think it arose from World War Number Two,
When nothing was wasted, when all was recouped.
Sometimes it was creamy, sometimes like a stew.
And all those jars in the back of the freezer?
Into them went all of the leftover bits!
No matter how odd or how much unrelated,
Leftover veggies, moussaka, cheese grits!
And when they were full, it was time for the soup pot,
A boiling hot cauldron of leftover hell,
I'd come home from school and open the front door
And know what was cooking from that wretched smell.
When this was for dinner, I knew that my chances
For getting dessert had now dropped below nil,
With plenty of choking and gagging and crying,
Eating that soup like a large bitter pill.
The thing I found strange as we all got much older,
When she had the money with no need to scrape,
She’d serve it to guests, and she’d do so with gusto;
From that dratted soup, there was just no escape!
windswept windsurfing wallabies warbling whales wailing................................................................................
A pink fish travelling with a tea towel is neither in a rush or dirty. Gridlocked gorillas getting grapes gracefully glide. Seafront mystery in windswept hair carrying a carrot, a jar of mustard, and ten grains of multicoloured rocks. A tambourine on a sponge cake can be beating but not beaten. And a lamb cawl is not a call nor a front crawl so place the gate and door at a sixty degree angle. Many custard cups play hockey with wildebeests in tutus. In a fingerless glove place nine toes, and in a pocket watch place a turning tubular pin. The frost from a llamas horn is neither stagnant or perfumed, it is merely a tidal wave of porridge. Hahaha magniloquent magnolia magnitude making monkfish moussaka. Hahaha equality equals equipment eveningwear xxxxxxx hospitalities Z z Z z Z
We begin at the beginning: a clove of garlic, too hard-headed
for its own good, combined with two large onions, their first denuding
revealing fallow gold: the second layer, a pale green puberty,
then, the heartless blade of the knife slices into the virginal white
purity of a cumulus cloud, which the shape-shifter processor
reduces to odiferous pearly drifts, destined tor the fry pan's
oil of olive from sunny Southern hillsides. This bounty blends
with the underpraised, but indispensable tomato, staple
in the kitchens of Italy and Spain, then Crimini mushrooms,
sliced within an inch of their lives and browned in a skillet to bring
odor of earthiness to this angelic mix. Six buttery ovals
afloat in their embryonic bath offer elixir of egg to the whir
of the beaters. With infusion of feta, and one of mozzarella, it
marries with the mushrooms, and in lieu of vestal virgins, lies down
with the pasta. We go now to oven. Heat does its homage, then
with souls of the missing, we come to table, a chair placed
for Neil: napkin, plate, and fork, until he welcomes us
Home. Hosts us once more.
for Neil Irvin Gray, 1918-2014
I am a gleaming aubergine
in an oval dish
My purple skin is polished
Like BBC English.
I await my fate for I am ripe
My seeds fulfil my wish
Soon,soon the knife will cut me up
As corn in fields is threshed.
I’d rather lie in Egypt’s soil
By birds and insects bit
But here I am in England
Where irony is wit.
After cutting comes the salt
As in a bowl I sit
For I am moist like lady’s parts
As poets have much writ.
Moussaka is my destiny
And as you bite and chew
I shall be what Jesus was
And give my grace to you
I am fried in olive oil
To give me flavour ripe.
Dried in cloth and placed in pot
Atop the meat I ride.
My colour brings all eyes to me
As I lie in a heap.
Some like carrot heads so bright
Royal purple is my state.
So better than a lamb I am
For a sacrifice.
I am proud and gleam like gold
As Caesar-like I’m knifed.
My seeds through sewers deep shall pass
And somewhere come to grief.
I shall grow again and be
Portrayed by a leaf.
I am certainly proud of my Greek heritage.
My way of life is something nobody can disparage.
For lunch, instead of simple sandwiches made with white bread,
mama packed me things like moussaka instead.
Right now, I am getting too old to be single.
With the right kind of men I must intermingle.
Yes, a good husband is what I now seek.
However, my man doesn't have to be Greek.
I have met someone who appears to be Mr. Right.
Would you like to meet this man tonight?
Based on the 2002 film "My Big Fat Greek Wedding"
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