It’s been quite the week. And I might have taken the Wolf Moon eclipse as my Sunday Weekly poem’s subject matter. But then we had an eclipse at Wolf Moon 2019 and I wrote one then. And I did write a draft of 2020 version, but I figured we might need to mix things up a bit this week.
Or nature might have been my muse. We have had some spectacular skies here this week as a parenthesis to the full moon’s eclipse.
But nah! When you have houseguests you tend to think a lot about menus. So food has been my muse. Also, there is a lot of music being played in the house.
Noodle I want to stretch that infinite string of dried dough that has become an elastic grace note pulled from the magic pot of water at a rolling boil that’s be-bop and it soars round in its steam and you can keep it plain or do it fried, or meaty, or saucy or so spicy it feels kind of naughty, its cayenne kick that turns to a croon till that bit of old dough is swooning onto your plate and it all started with a migrate out of the east on a camel’s back west, travelling the old Silk Road route and all along the people named it their way – gnudel or nouille or the even faster pasta. Noodles are the original jazz. Each place would sing its song on a plate no matter what its name, served up the sauce wherever it came. We kind of like this noodling with flour, water and the odd spare egg. It’s poor people’s princely fare that can sing a mean hymn of praise and swoop into some melancholy longing for your baby who just stayed and never followed your string, just sucked it all up with your silky voice. It’s all jazz and the world is just a pea served with your noodles. And all of us are just following that elastic note on its last string. Copyright © Bee Smith 2020. All rights reserved.