The Hungry Ear Read Online Free PDF Page A

nights, I fed her to sleep,
week after week, the moon rising,
and setting, and waxing—whirling, over the months,
in a steady blur, around our planet.
Now she doesn’t need love like that, she has
had it. She will walk in glowing, we will talk,
and then, when she’s fast asleep, I’ll exult
to have her in that room again,
behind that door! As a child, I caught
bees, by the wings, and held them, some seconds,
looked into their wild faces,
listened to them sing, then tossed them back
into the air—I remember the moment the
arc of my toss swerved, and they entered
the corrected curve of their departure.

CHURNING & PRESERVING

    If you’re afraid of butter, use cream
.
    â€”JULIA CHILD

Butter
    ELIZABETH ALEXANDER
    My mother loves butter more than I do,
more than anyone. She pulls chunks off
the stick and eats it plain, explaining
cream spun around into butter! Growing up
we ate turkey cutlets sauteed in lemon
and butter, butter and cheese on green noodles,
butter melting in small pools in the hearts
of Yorkshire puddings, butter better
than gravy staining white rice yellow,
butter glazing corn in slipping squares,
butter the lava in white volcanoes
of hominy grits, butter softening
in a white bowl to be creamed with white
sugar, butter disappearing into
whipped potatoes, with pineapple,
butter melted and curdy to pour
over pancakes, butter licked off the plate
with warm Alaga syrup. When I picture
the good old days I am grinning greasy
with my brother, having watched the tiger
chase his tail and turn to butter. We are
Mumbo and Jumbo’s children despite
historical revision, despite
our parent’s efforts, glowing from the inside
out, one hundred megawatts of butter.

Ode to Butter
    LINTON HOPKINS
    Thou still unravished bride of promises
a child of art and craft
fixed with many suitors eyes
born of Thracia from capra and aries
reaching perfection with the taurus
    Vollon, still life’s master
conjured you in 1875
Escoffier’s contemporary, he knew who you were:
a foundation.
    In ancient India you were clarified into one of their most elemental of foods.
    GHEE, Sanskrit for “bright”
    you are an ancient offering to the gods and burned in holy lamps and funeral pyres
    eternal
    beaten out of cream
kneaded and shaped
salted to preserve
fresh, room temp—there is no need to refrigerate you
as the poet Seamus said
you are “coagulated sunlight”
    sunlight transformed by the cow
from the seasonal hue
cool and spreadable I taste your season,
bright, fat and herbal in spring and summer when
fed on clover and fresh grass
in the winter you taste of hay and grain
    Julia became Julia when met with your aroma
commingling in a pan with shallots
many people don’t know that you actually lighten a dish
small knobs stirred into reduced stock
mouthfeel, richness
the dish which is missing something
is quickly set right
    Would French cuisine exist without you?
Chef Point in ’37, manned the stoves at La Pyramide writing
“Butter! Give me Butter! Always Butter!”
    So versatile are you
clarified to remove the milk
you saute at high heat
whole at low flame you perform a feat of magic:
you emulsify with yourself
the water, milk solids and fat,
a whisk, some coaxing
a smooth warm sauce is born, beurre monte
a little wine vinegar and shallot … beurre blanc
    toasted till hazelnut brown; noisette
darkened to almost burnt dark black; noir
worked into eggs: hollandaise and bernaise
    asparagus, broccoli, and legumes
they all cry out for you
Pastry without you is unimaginable
your melting between the million layers is the puff
pate brisee, pate sucree,
cookies and cakes all begin with creaming
you and sugar
    the South?
fresh churned from cream with a second gift; buttermilk
    whose quality is determined by how many of your children float across the surface
    spread on warm biscuits with sorghum
a small knob in a bowl of grits
steaming hot sweet potatoes with you on top
bread & butter