It’s the time of year when I find myself thinking about food more, and not just food itself—but also where it comes from and how it gets to my table. A big part of the joy of summer for me is the seasonality of food.

It feels like food comes into focus this time of year, and I get excited about the way time begins to reward us. It starts with rhubarb and asparagus, then comes lettuce and radishes, and soon tomatoes and peppers.

With the fresh food comes an increased energy to get into the kitchen, at least for me. Some of my favorite meals have been cooked and eaten during the summer months. There’s a burst of creativity and community around the table this time of year. Perhaps a response to the long deadness of winter months in the midwest.

I love baking rhubarb scones to share. I love grilling chicken to eat over lettuce from the garden. There’s nothing better than spending time in the kitchen, planning and preparing, to ultimately end up around a table with those you love. And there’s something so specific about how a long meal can bring up conversations you never thought you’d have.

This week, I want to write a poem about the kitchen. The food I cook, but also the people I eat it with. Where the food comes from, the earth and the markets, and the folks who grow it, the farmers and the gardeners. The memories shared in the kitchen or at the table, and how those memories stick with me today.

Here are a few kitchen poems I love in the meantime:

Perhaps the World Ends Here
By Joy Harjo

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been
since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They
scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human.
We make men at it, we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children.
They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put
ourselves back together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow
of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial
here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse.
We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and
crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

In the Middle of Dinner
By Chris Abani

my mother put down her knife and fork,
pulled her wedding ring from its groove,
placing it contemplatively on her middle
finger. So natural was the move,
so tender, I almost didn’t notice.
Five years, she said, five years, once a week,
I wrote a letter to your father. And waited
until time was like ash on my tongue.
Not one letter back, not a single note.
She sighed, smiling, the weight gone. This
prime rib is really tender, isn’t it? she asked.

Prayer after Eating
By Wendell Berry

I have taken in the light
that quickened eye and leaf.
May my brain be bright with praise
of what I eat, in the brief blaze
of motion and of thought.
May I be worthy of my meat.

As I near the end of my residency, I’m hoping to round up your place-based poems! Send them my way at sklblauren@gmail.com.

I look forward to reading.

Best,
L.A. Sklba