The Writings of Gabriela Garcia Medina

At Least I’m a Good Poet!

At least im a good poet!
Smoke seeps through the walls of my kitchen
Aromas of garlic mixed, with burnt caramel and old Teflon sink into my hands and hair
Im barefoot and wearing an apron with Frida Kahlo drawings all over it
It’s frills make me feel sexy
If only I could pull this off….
Kettle boiling
My stomach turning cause I’ve tasted everything from the undercooked flan
To the overcooked caramel
To the burnt tomato paste
And three week old wine I threw into the vegan picadillo.
Im trying to impress my boyfriend tonight
Well, at least im a good poet
At least im a good poet
I repeat to make myself feel better
Batter all over the kitchen table
Floor is sprinkled unintentionally with sugar
Tomato seeds and chopped onion squares have been diving off the cutting board for the last 2 hours.
It’s a mess in here!
Looks like the giant sitting atop his beanstalk
Ate too much of a lot of things and threw up all over the linoleum
Kinda smells like it too
Well, at least im a good poet
Pan is sizzling,
Windows are wide open
The birds outside aren’t brave enough to fly within 10 feet of the house
And my favorite plant has started sweating garlic and is slowly wilting
As the heat permeates through its stems, I think it’s trying to tell me something
I should really turn off the stove, throw everything away and order Chinese food,
Or thai food…he likes thai food…I could say I made it!
The thought has crossed my mind a few times, but lying isn’t my strong suit
Ok, I can pull this off, and if it doesn’t work out….
Well, at least im a good poet
Cant be good at EVERYTHING!
This is like my second time trying to cook something other than salad
I can sure hook up a great salad!
Though im not sure that would really impress his mother
A cloud of smoke hovers over my pots
Looks like a forest fire
Like the apocalypse is coming and all the veggies are going to hell
Good thing I took the batteries out of the fire alarms last time I tried doing this!

At least im a good poet!
Been following grandmother’s recipes
Though nothing’s turned out according to plan
See, it all started with the flan
I made it three times!
In that time, I could have written him a love poem and a couple of rhymes
That would have been a whole lot more productive than this cooking thing!
It would have served the same purpose,
To do a nice, thoughtful deed for someone I love,
But no, I wanted to challenge myself, so here I am
Stubborn, and stuck in this kitchen like dried egg-white on the table.
And how I thought I could cook 2 main dishes, 3 sides and a dessert with only two functionally challenged pots and one and a half pans?
I DO NOT KNOW!
And yes, I said one and a half pans
The half is missing a handle which, I accidentally burnt
When I tried to make pancakes once
And the Teflon is scratched from when I tried to fry an egg
And because I didn’t have a wooden spoon I used a metal fork instead
How was I supposed to know that the Teflon would shed?
I should have thrown it away, but since I almost never used it, why bother
Well, now im trying to cook beans in this pan
Organic-Cuban-Style Black Beans!
At least that’s what the can said
Yes, I used beans from a can
And No, that’s not cheating, I still added my grandma’s famous sofrito,
Which I made from scratch
And no, of course I wont tell him they are from a can!
Because technically I still “cooked” them.

At least im a good poet
At least im a good poet
And then, there was the rice…
You would think that it would be easy to make rice
Especially already cooked, organic brown rice from Trader Joes
All I had to do, was take the rice out of the plastic pouch and warm it up
A one-armed, blind man with a congested nose and burnt taste buds could pull this off
So why wouldn’t a creative and enthusiastic young woman with fully functioning senses manage to do the same?
Trying to juggle to many pots at once,
Before I finished pouring the mojo on the yucca,
Checking on the beans and tasting the flan
My already cooked, organic brown rice was burnt, black, stuck to the bottom of the pot, like old gum under school desks
So I quickly poured half a cup of water into the mix thinking that would make it better,
And, NEGATIVE

NOTE TO SELF: (for future reference): Adding water to already cooked burnt brown rice, Gives you exactly that:
watery-cooked-burnt-brown rice.
So I threw it out and started again,
This time I didn’t even blink.
Focused. All eyes on the prize! stir, stir, done!
And to make it look pretty I molded the rice like little mountains on our plates using a teacup!
Like I said…creativity points for the POET!

Doorbell rings
I anxiously let my boyfriend in
The moment of truth
I bring each plate into the living room like a Dead Man Walking
Awaiting execution for pre-meditated cooking and accidental poisoning
I can already picture myself crying over my boyfriend’s body,
Forgive me, Forgive me
At least I’m a good poet!
I place each dish on my living room coffee table,
Nope, I don’t have a dining room, or table….or chairs
So here we are,
Sitting on the floor,
Candles lit all around us (to create a diversion)
He might like the food a little better if he can’t actually SEE what it looks like.
You go in for the first bite,
I bite my lip and pretend to close my eyes, but secretly look to catch your first reaction
You swallow
I exhale
You say that it’s delicious
I say “you’re being too nice, It’s ok, At least im a good poet”
You compliment the flavors
You are impressed that I actually pulled off an almost-Cuban vegan menu.
Isn’t that like an oxymoron? Like defying gravity? Like magic?
“Well, I Am the world’s greatest magician” I reply
A smile now growing deeper and deeper into my cheeks
You look into my eyes:
“Gaby, this meal is an exact representation of your life,
Of your struggle to be Cuban and fit in with the pork fat, chicharrones, deep fried plantains and lots of tocino in the black beans culture while committing to being yourself: a vegetarian, mostly vegan, often raw, Michael Pollan-reading, always-smiling- feminist poet.”
Yes, it’s hard I know! I respond
You say I balanced it beautifully
You take another bite,
I’m so nervous I kinda lost my appetite
“You make me wanna learn to cook”, I say
You ask me if I put any of the cheese that’s coming out of my mouth into the food
And then you comment that a man cant technically “make” a feminist “DO” anything
I rephrase myself…
“I mean…that being with you inspires me to want to learn new skills, acquire new gifts, like cooking and I apologize in advance that you get to be my test subject,
But like I said, at least im a good poet!”

He puts his silver-wear down for a minute
Finishes swallows the forkful of my concuction,
And placing his soft hand over mine, he says:
Well, you weren’t always a good Poet
When you started writing, I bet your poems
Were not always simmered quite right,
There must have been times when your words were slightly overcooked
And didn’t emulsify into savory poetry
Im sure you’ve had your fair share of salty metaphors
And thoughts that drowned in their natural flavors from ideas that were not well seasoned
A vocabulary once too bitter or too sweet
And a style a little bland
And now, look how far you have come
You are a chef of words,
A recipe for innovative rhyming
A taste for meaning
A perfect blend of creativity and wisdom
Marinating spirit into life
And peeling layers of truth with every word
You are indeed a good poet
And so with your cuisine,
You may also one day be able to cook like you write.

(…Actually,
he didn’t exactly say those things;
He’s an engineer,
But that’s how this poet,
soon-to-be kitchen guru
remembers it!)