The Singular Beginning of Your Smile

my love is building a building
around you,a frail slipperyhouse,a strong fragile house


I grew up in small town Montana in the era of cats you didn't feed and dogs chained to backyard trees, which maybe is still the current era for small town Montana, but it's been a long time since I was growing up there.

I loved those dogs. Those half-wild things that would pant and pace in the house, more comfortable in the fenced half acre. How I'd quick, walk to buy them cans of Alpo on increasingly dubious credit. How Ken at the Market would fold his arms over his chest and joke, Buying dinner for your dad? and how my dad would always call him an asshole, but I didn't know if he was joking.

When I was seven or eight I worried about my dog, thought it wasn't right for her to be chained outside through the Montana seasons, sometimes all four of them in one afternoon, or so they say. I wanted to give her something. I wanted there to be something that was hers. So with all the haphazard industriousness of childhood, I cleaned out my old playhouse.

It was made of plastic, thick white double-paned plastic walls with a green plastic roof, designed to look like shingles. Plastic windows with yellow plastic shutters, and a plastic red brick chimney clinging to the side.

a skilful uncouth
prison, a precise clumsy
prison(building thatandthis into Thus,
Around the reckless magic of your mouth)

My little house had fallen into disarray. It was dirty and spider-ridden, all webs and dead leaves. Sweet smell of decaying leaves, thick dust and rain-river streaks of dirt. I dragged the garden hose into the backyard and spent that afternoon, that hot afternoon, scrubbing and spraying and transforming that little house into a proper shelter. When I was satisfied, I dragged it over beneath the tree. The tree where the dog was chained. Where the chained dog had dug out her dog-sized hole between the thick gnarl of roots, and spent her hot afternoons panting and snapping at flies.

Inside that house I put her water bowl, a heap of blankets, a bowl of kibble. Calling her over, she hesitated outside that red plastic half door, swung wide open on its plastic hinges. Come on, Mogwai. This is for you, a real home for you. She didn't trust that house, but she did trust me. I lured her in, patted the blankets so she would lie down and feel comfortable and know that I loved her. She inspected the blankets. Inspected her food and water bowls. Stretched out on the one bare patch of grass inside that plastic house, which did not have a plastic floor.

She was stretched out there, panting, looking at me in a way I took to mean Thank you when I noticed some spiderwebs I'd missed. I didn't think, I just slipped out and grabbed the hose. Turned that water full blast onto the plastic side of that plastic house, where the dog was still chained to her dog-chain tree. I can’t imagine how that blast of water must have sounded from inside. What I do know is I realized I'd made a mistake almost immediately. What I do know is she burst out of that swinging red half door screaming.

my love is building a magic, a discrete
tower of magic and(as i guess)

Lately I've been feeling a lot like that dog. Like I want something nice but don't trust it. Or lately I've been feeling like that child me, wanting so hard for everything to be perfect that it ends up ruined. A spotless but still vacant house. I was never able to talk her back inside once the damage was done.

when Farmer Death(whom fairies hate)shall
crumble the mouth-flower fleet
He’ll not my tower,
                        laborious, casual

where the surrounded smile
                                hangs

                                          breathless

Make My Limbs Your Crazy Meal

My culinary habits are like a mausoleum of love.

From childhood I learned how to fold Crisco into a batch of sour cream and chive biscuits, how to resist the urge to mix it smooth because sometimes less is more.

My mother taught me you don't just glaze a meatloaf-- you fold an equal portion of honey and ketchup into the meat, eggs, and breadcrumbs with a heavy dose of salt and pepper. Taught me to bubble the corn tortillas in a cast iron skillet of hot oil, because singed fingertips are a small price to pay for a perfect bastardized batch of enchiladas.

When was I taught that you toast each piece of bread before hollowing out the center to stabilize the egg, fried in butter? Eggs in a basket, toad in the hole. I know when I was young, I learned that even cabbage is best when fried in butter. Still the secret to grilled cheese is Miracle Whip, spread liberally on the outside of each piece of bread. Something about sugar content. Something about caramelization.

The secret ingredient in the family marinade is Chinese mustard. Spaghetti sauce? Worcestershire and brown sugar. Ask me about Louisiana taco salad, I'll tell you about potlucks and picnics; the night we tried Frito Scoops instead of the originals and the proportions were all wrong. How every innovation is an opportunity for regret, but you fill your stomach and feel glad anyways.

From first love I learned the art of free-styling. How to fashion a feast from mushroom soup, how to feed on the scavenging of a parent’s well-stocked pantry. Not mine, but hers. Green beans and macaroni. Our one botched batch of corned beef. With you I survived the cereal and beer diet. Discovered Tomato Delight. Knew intimately the taste of wanting more than your means.

Next came the romantic era of experimentation. My chicken vindaloo was dry and too spicy though I had painstakingly followed the recipe from that fine dining magazine. You ate every bite anyhow. Remember your bow tie noodles? The soggy chilaquiles with too much broth, not enough lime? I remember that even though you were a vegetarian, you made me that pot of chili that summer. I don't remember how it tasted, because it didn't matter. Butterscotch pie and fresh bananas. A recipe I'll never be privy to. After you, it took me a full two years to realize a single package of mushrooms could be stretched through up to three meals.

Next, the girls who cooked meals that never left me feeling full. Still I won't forget you.

Then. Penzeys. Bacon wrapped dates. Carcinogens in baked sweet potato skins. The versatility of Trader Joe’s sausage. She texted me once that since dating me, she'd changed the way she cracked her eggs and I thought Maybe that’s love. Maybe that’s enough. Thank you for teaching me the art of baking bacon. I swear, my life will never be the same.

And finally from you. The giant jar of garlic in the fridge, pre-minced so I don't have to dirty my hands. A new affection for fresh herbs. A new desire to let things develop their own flavor. Slowly. Slowly. Darling, there is so much I want to learn from you. So much I want to share. When you wander through the mausoleum of my cooking, I want you to taste the unravelIng thread of love leading me to this: you in your sleeping shirt, dicing vegetables in the hallway of my kitchen while the sweet potatoes fry into a string shoe crisp. How we wrapped them in fresh tortillas with black beans and slow-scrambled the eggs. The habanero sauce overwhelmed our mouths, which we pressed together anyways. We used slices of fresh avocado to cool the bite.

I want you and I to be a new recipe. Let me mix this ketchup and honey into your meatloaf, laden as it is with leafy green treachery. Or maybe you can teach me the secret to that dairy-free hollandaise you studied up on. I'll teach you the hard earned ingredients of my peanut sauce decade. How rice vinegar offsets the richness of soy sauce and brown sugar. Let our love be plump and well-fed, like my heart has been since it discovered the taste and texture of your affection. Let it be flavorful and bursting with our past experience and new discoveries.

Please, be the fragrance of new in this mausoleum of cooking. It may take some time for the flavors to fully develop, but I swear this fusion of our lives will be worthwhile.