Micropoetry Monday: Yummies & Yuckies

The Hungry Hannah

From Nutty to Fruity

When the Stone Fruit family
(surname Drupe)
gathered in a felled orchard
to go over the family business,
they, through Incestry.com,
found that Almond was a long-lost relative.
When Almond—
who’d been adopted into the Nut family,
which, although seedy,
with a tough, outer shell
& the tendency to be cracked—
learned of her roots,
she blanched in horror,
for Peach was like the missing link
with all that fuzz;
talking to Cherry was the pits,
& Plum was just plum crazy.
When she rejected their soft flesh,
she went back to being ground into butter
rather than baked into pies.

Mr. Mayo was the breadwinner
who brought home the bacon,
& when he hooked up with
the tomato from upstairs,
luring her with his full head of lettuce,
they made a beautiful sandwich together.

When Holy Cow met Unholy Pig,
they opened a chicken sandwich shop
across the road called “Eat, Graze, Love,”
only to be accosted
by the Big Cheese of Animal Farm,
who thought—
with a mess of lettuce, tomatoes, & mayo
& stuffed between two pillows (of brioche)—
they were a match made
in gastronomical heaven.

Micropoetry Monday: Yummies & Yuckies


Fudge & Divinity
were 2 of a kind.
Fudge felt superior,
for, according to him,
chocolate was the granddaddy
of all desserts;
Divinity felt superior,
for she required a skilled confectioner
with a candy thermometer,
yet these candies realized that without
walnuts for him
& pecans for her,
they were just plain sweet.

When Dr. Pepper showed up to work,
high on Coke,
his little Sprite of a nurse gave him
a Heads-Up 7-Up that Mr. Pibb
wanted to take his place at the table.
When Mr. Pibb saw the doc in all his glory—
Sunkist with the Mountain Dew—
he realized that even though he was made of
practically the same stuff,
he just didn’t have the punch (or the doctorate) that Pep had.

A miniature glass menagerie of liqueurs—
from coconut rum to cherry brandy—
lines the shelves like Fabergé eggs
in Chantilly’s Chocolaterie.
For one sacred day that lasts a 1000 years,
Tilly, known as the truffle alchemist,
makes the blind see colors
with her boozy Braille balls,
& the deaf hear melodies
with her bonbons filled
with music notes—
like harmonious fortune cookies.
Her Chocolate Fountain of Youth
from which the bittersweet drink
is circled by frozen,
white chocolate
shot glasses,
for the rules of this sweet shoppe is no forks,
no spoons,
no straws,
no wrappings,
& that everything be consumed
with clean hands,
for there is magic encapsulated
in every drop & sphere that is
created with couverture
& consumed with godliness.

Micropoetry Monday: The Lighter Side

In the valley of the dollhouses
there lay the site of the Calico Critters’ Lumberjack Festival.
When the Hopscotch Bunnies decided to participate
alongside the Eager Beavers
rather than fell trees,
they were needed on the roofs
to get better reception.

When 10:10 met 8:20,
an annoying, perky sort,
told 8:20 to turn his clock face frown
upside down
& 8:20,
taking his advice,
cleaned 10:10’s clock
with his longer hand,
so that it took a minute
rather than an hour,
making 8:20 feel like an a.m.
rather than a p.m.

Mr. Gherkin always found himself in a pickle,
Miss Cherry, a jam,
but these 2 accident-prone soul-mates—
1 sweet, 1 sour—
had never met until they were joined
in sandwich-style matrimony
by the pregnant bridezilla.

Family Christmas parties, Dirty Santa, and the art of regifting


Every year, my husband’s family has a Dirty Santa Christmas party. There’s the pepperoni bread that all the teenagers love, the Bisquick sausage and cheese balls that are like savory truffles, and the peanut butter balls that take an insane amount of powdered sugar to make. When my husband’s aunt was alive, it was an Italian feast, even though she was from Maine and of French heritage. (My husband’s father, however, was Italian.)  

I don’t even bring food anymore because there is so damn much, and there are always too many desserts.

My brother-in-law (BIL) works for a liquor distributor, so there’s always plenty of boozea must-have for any holiday gathering where you’re seeing people you only see once a year and only because you happen to be related. 

As an introvert with social anxiety that I happen to hide very well (unless I’m around someone I think is hot or who I swear is laughing at me on the inside, which is sometimes the same person), I’m not a fan of parties with lots of people I don’t know well. It’s emotionally exhausting, but my six-year-old daughter is an excellent buffer.    

As I am not friends with any of my husband’s family on Facebook, and my husband ditched his account last year, we’re like the black sheep (my husband likes to call himself the stray sheep) of his family; in my family, I’m like the golden fleece, so think what you will about that!  

I cannot compete with my husband’s successful sisters, whose careers have been established for years, while I’m just figuring things out. Their kids are either grown or practically grown, whereas my daughter is in the first grade, and I am working on my bachelor’s degree at 38. I guess my husband and I are both late bloomers.  

So, “Dirty Santa” is always my favorite part of the party. I don’t have to mill around and mingle, as we are all sitting in a circle, opening presents. Honestly, gift giving is a lot more fun when it doesn’t cost anything, and it’s all in fun—when you don’t give a rip about what you’re going to get because you already know it’s probably going to suck.

The year I was into couponing, I tossed some Maxi pads (with wings; it isn’t an angel in need if it doesn’t have wings) in a gently used gift bag. That might have been the year I threw in a Bing Crosby CD in which he dreamily crooned about white Christmases (what the hell is wrong with a green Christmas where we don’t have to worry about dying in a blizzard?). So yes, sanitary napkins + Bing = a hard candy Christmas. 

Another year, I gave away some DVDs when a lot of the same movies I could just DVR (I will never, however, ever part with my Wings and I Love Lucy collection). Last year, I threw in some unused candles (from my candle collecting days), and this year, there’s “The Shrimper”a running gag that’s been passed around my husband’s family for years. I don’t mind getting stuck with it, as I am the queen of regifting. Most of the gifts probably end up donated or regifted anyway; I am not spending money on a nice gift so I can get a bobo present. A good third of Dirty Santa gifts were left behind last year, which, to me, shows a complete lack of regard for the hosts, who have to figure out how to (probably) dispose of them.

Since I have run out of things to regift (ain’t minimalism great?), I thank God for “The Shrimper,” as it’s recurrence keeps another item out of the landfill.

Micropoetry Monday: Love Story

Sepia heart

He’d been defrocked,
& she’d been disbarred.
They fell in love
as they’d fallen into other traps:
Through blood that flowed
away from the brain &
into their erogenous danger zones.
Their recklessness brought them crashing together,
even though he couldn’t save her
any more than she could defend him.

He was Urban Dictionary,
she, Merriam Webster.
She thought him crude,
he thought her a prude,
but when they had to work together
to meet a common goal,
they found a common interest:
each other.

He was meat & potatoes,
she, veggie burgers & sprouted grains.
Over dark chocolate mousse
with white chocolate antlers,
they fell for one another,
realizing that the savory had kept them alive,
even as the sweet had sealed the deal with a kiss.

Food Processors

Their parents had grown up eating squirrel & possum,
or “tree rats” & “tree hangers”⁠—
anything that couldn’t get away fast enough.
Their children had grown up eating hamburger & liver from the grocery store,
turned into casseroles or smothered with onions to mask the odor
washed down with milk delivered by the Dairy Don Juans.
But their children’s children enjoyed
all-natural lobster & gluten-free madeleines
served with organic water,
showing that as food became fancier,
foodies became softer.