Tag Archives: pastry

Sense and Memorabilia

I remember, in the heart of passion once, trying to get a guy’s turtle-neck sweater off. But it turned out not to be a turtle-neck sweater. – Joe Brainard, I Remember (131). 

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I remember not being able to get any dessert but prune crostata when I lived in Parma. But not minding, really.

“In the heart of passion” – that probably says it all. I Remember, written in 1975 by Joe Brainard, is one of the sweetest, funniest books I have ever read. In fact, I caused the  fellow commuter sitting in the seat ahead of me some alarm as I intermittently burst into spasms of laughter reading this on my way home the other night. She rather ostentatiously turned around to see what I was on about, and then I caught her peeping into the reflection of the window several times assessing my mental health.

I remember a little girl who had a white rabbit coat and hat and muff. Actually, I don’t remember the little girl. I remember the coat and the hat and the muff (32).

The book is brilliantly conceived. Ridiculously and poignantly simple. It reads as a sort of poem with each stanza beginning with the refrain: I remember.

I remember the only time I ever saw my mother cry. I was eating apricot pie (8).

There is something magical in it. Brainard, a child and adolescent of the 40s and 50s, relates  details that are lovely in their historicism, but it is the disarming simplicity of his raw memory data that connects the reader to this charming fellow.

I remember once my mother parading a bunch of women through the bathroom as I was taking a shit. Never have I been so embarrassed! (93)

I’m really glad I never did that. As a mother of (mostly) sons, my heart just about burst for this young boy and his beautiful, puriel, ernest mind.

I remember when I worked in a snack bar and how much I hated people who ordered malts (22).

As a human who endured adolescence and retains a frightening degree of it, my heart ached for our shared humiliations, tribulations, and confusions. It would seem that Mr. Brainard and I suffer from the same malady – our hearts stuck in the ‘on’ position.

I remember liver (16).

Me too.

I remember Judy Garland singing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” (so sad) in Meet Me in St. Louis (49).

It was his tender use of parenthetical commentary that convinced me that this man must have been a lovely, kind soul.

I remember a girl in Dayton, Ohio, who “taught” me what to do with your tongue, which, it turns out, is definitely what not to do with your tongue. You could really hurt somebody that way. (Strangulation.) (133)

It is his innocence and crass adolescent mind, (which never seems to really leave us, eh?) his sexual forays, observations, reactions, and random thoughts that fill his memoir. This is the stuff we are made of.

I remember my mother cornering me into the corners to squeeze out blackheads. (Hurt like hell.) (141)

Okay – but in my defense, as a mother, that is really hard to resist.

I remember not finding pumpkin pie very visually appealing (113).

The sensual strength of our memories, whether it be vision, touch, sound, taste or smell is fascinating, revealing, and true. This is how we experience our lives – our world. It’s beautiful. Joe Brainard’s, mine, and yours. Simply beautiful.

I remember trying to figure out what it’s all about. (Life.) (46)

 

* I Remember – published by Granary Books

 

 

 

 

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Bartered

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Before you, this rose.
Blush and bemused sweet.
Between fingers stained,
Better unrestrained with
Berries and their red refrain
Bartered for my heart.

Prepare You Victuals

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Sweetness kindled
Push my heart
Prepare you victuals
Prepare you tart
Untwist the riddle
of the lame-wing’s dart
Let us meet in the middle
For to make a start

The Berry Faithful

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A tart for one season
the sweet and the heat
oh give me a reason
come save my belief

*Strawberry tart with pastry cream, decorated with strawberries by my 14 year old son.

The Unbaked

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rhubarb and almond paste crust tart

chartreuse at your heart
peeled away, cut up and bruised
there is a bitter taste
undone
what you left in my mouth

The Knife in Your Hand

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If I’m a red berry, bloody and blue
a bursting well, right there, within you.
A sweet berry on your tongue (too few!)
that is, if I’m anything which once you knew.
More than nothing
less than true,
here in the silence of weeping dark hues.
If I’m the almond’s breath that calls,
the executioner’s hand, for me, is all.

JA/2013  *Photo- Almond Berry Tartlet

Survival of the Covet-est

I went out in the rain this morning to beat the wildlife to the raspberries. Still, I only managed to walk away with a large handful. Not easily dissuaded, I simply changed my point of craving from raspberry scones to lemon-raspberry scones…