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| Detail from “The School of Athens” a fresco by Raphael (1483 – 1520) [Click image to call up all published instalments] |
Back in the summer of 2019, I heard a word that kept me up all night, trying to figure out how I could use it in a poem. That word was Pasticcio.
Pasticcio is another term for pastiche, which refers to an artistic work consisting of a medley of pieces taken from various sources.
For me, it brought to mind a poetry collaboration and because it sounded so close to pistachio, reminded me of my favorite summer moments in Wisconsin, eating Almond Pistachio pudding turned into ice cream, then playing on the shore and in the waters of Lake Ripley. What if we did an artistic collaboration about our memories with pudding?
I put an invitation on social media for participants and had a couple of friends jump in with their memories.
The project was forgotten for a while until after the completion of the collaborative poem “While We Were Savages” brought calls for the Jeff City Poets to try another.
At our next meeting in Jefferson City, I suggested this idea to the other four poets, but it was shot down.
It did give me the opportunity to look again at what I already had, including memories from Carey Wilmes and Michael Finnerty, both from Indiana. A little heat in a big pot and the piece finally came together.
Since most of these images are focused on warm pudding, I figured the holiday season would be a perfect time to share. Hope these memories bring back some of your own pudding moments.
Thank you to Carey & Michael for playing along!
Pasticcio Pudding
—With Carey Wilmes and Michael Finnerty
pasticcio: noun. another term for pastiche
pastiche: noun. an artistic work consisting of
a medley of pieces taken from
various sources
pudding: noun. mmmmm…yum!
1. (MS)
For me
it is warmth in the cold darkness of evening,
Sunday nights in February,
Daddy stirring the big pot
f o r e v e r,
finally bringing milk and sugar to boil,
taking it from the flame and
outside to pack in
new fallen snow,
us staring from the window
into the shadows,
wondering how long until
it could be retrieved
and we could break the skin
taking a bowl into the living room,
sitting in front of the TV,
where Marlon Perkins and the
wonderful World Disney brought
held the eight of us silent
but for the sound of our spoons.
2. (CW)
For me
it is both memory and anticipation,
the smell of pudding mingled
with that of burning wood
in the pot-belly stove
that cooked our treat
as it kept us warm.
It was love and happiness,
a gift from grandma
to each grandchild,
“Just because.”
I cannot have pudding
without remembering how it felt—
safe, loved and warmed by the fire
burning in that cast-iron belly.
3. (MS)
it is summer frozen
in the sun at Lake Ripley,
a cup of almond pistachio
pudding turned ice cream and
attacked with plastic spoons
as we laughed,
running around in our swimsuits,
not knowing if the afternoon
promised bathing
with seaweed and minnows,
toes slipping in the muddy lake-bottom,
or maybe we could take an aluminum row,
a pocket of worms to offer deep
and pull a fighter from below:
a crappie, walleye or bass,
perhaps a few passive perch
we could bring back
for mom to fry up—
ah, half the day left
to do whatever we wanted
until the mosquitos of approaching darkness
chased us from the pier,
bare feet making one more dash
to the icehouse for another dish
of frozen summer.
4. (MF)
It takes me back…
What is Grandma making—
it’s green!
It isn’t chocolate!
It has nuts and tastes funny,
but I like it.
I am a grasshopper,
knee-high at her kitchen table
yet growing so big.
So many hours of shared laughter,
so many stories told over the bowls,
memories made over the green of
pistachio pudding—
keeping her alive in the smile she reflected
of the boy now grown,
forever playing with his food.
5. (MS)
The skin,
so thick as it covers my belly—
slice it open and it pours
with memories
and tapioca.
For me
it is warmth in the cold darkness of evening,
Sunday nights in February,
Daddy stirring the big pot
f o r e v e r,
finally bringing milk and sugar to boil,
taking it from the flame and
outside to pack in
new fallen snow,
us staring from the window
into the shadows,
wondering how long until
it could be retrieved
and we could break the skin
taking a bowl into the living room,
sitting in front of the TV,
where Marlon Perkins and the
wonderful World Disney brought
held the eight of us silent
but for the sound of our spoons.
2. (CW)
For me
it is both memory and anticipation,
the smell of pudding mingled
with that of burning wood
in the pot-belly stove
that cooked our treat
as it kept us warm.
It was love and happiness,
a gift from grandma
to each grandchild,
“Just because.”
I cannot have pudding
without remembering how it felt—
safe, loved and warmed by the fire
burning in that cast-iron belly.
3. (MS)
it is summer frozen
in the sun at Lake Ripley,
a cup of almond pistachio
pudding turned ice cream and
attacked with plastic spoons
as we laughed,
running around in our swimsuits,
not knowing if the afternoon
promised bathing
with seaweed and minnows,
toes slipping in the muddy lake-bottom,
or maybe we could take an aluminum row,
a pocket of worms to offer deep
and pull a fighter from below:
a crappie, walleye or bass,
perhaps a few passive perch
we could bring back
for mom to fry up—
ah, half the day left
to do whatever we wanted
until the mosquitos of approaching darkness
chased us from the pier,
bare feet making one more dash
to the icehouse for another dish
of frozen summer.
4. (MF)
It takes me back…
What is Grandma making—
it’s green!
It isn’t chocolate!
It has nuts and tastes funny,
but I like it.
I am a grasshopper,
knee-high at her kitchen table
yet growing so big.
So many hours of shared laughter,
so many stories told over the bowls,
memories made over the green of
pistachio pudding—
keeping her alive in the smile she reflected
of the boy now grown,
forever playing with his food.
5. (MS)
The skin,
so thick as it covers my belly—
slice it open and it pours
with memories
and tapioca.
| Copyright © 2022 by Maik Strosahl Michael E. Strosahl has focused on poetry for over twenty years, during which time he served a term as President of the Poetry Society of Indiana. He relocated to Jefferson City, Missouri, in 2018 and currently co-hosts a writers group there. |
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