#rhubarb
Rhubarb Raspberry crostata: a combination of recipes
Apologies for the crappy photo. Normally I get my husband to snap the shots, but I was in a hurry. It looked much better IRL I tend to record any Ina Garten shows that come up on the Food Network and occasionally Martha Stewart on PBS. It’s a habit. I love their recipes, but sometimes I like to change things up even as I try them out. For this Crostata, I used a combination of two recipes:…
We dangle on the laced
rope of a hammock, my rhubarb bra flicks
over the birch branch, prints the whole lawn
flush pink. We are inside a star.
We are dust. Your look is granular,
whistles gather me.
I am dancing
flush and light. There are s sounds
in all the words without them.
We roast apples on a fire
made of beach glass.
We sleep without a roof.
The hammock rope is damp still
with morning cloud. The hummingbird croons
a tale of open lids, honeybees, wake, honey,
wake. We come and core ourselves
like a story. We are apple-cherry
and culled. This is the beginning
and the end is seedling, long like blue
in distance. It is after now.
We understand time like tea.
Your palms yawn, sing we are moth-eaten
and dirtied from all the hours in the flower
beds—
I tell you I am afraid of wholeness
and also not being whole,
and the earth turns to opal salt.
We watch and imagine the things you will gift
me laid on a cedar plank:
talc poems, spiced corn chips, two sawlog
wheels with honeysuckle spokes, a slate blue
voice, all the craters
you know on the moons of Mars
in diametrical order,
a map of shelter you call a constellation,
it dances slow, you whistle.
The onions in Maine bloom pink flowers.
I’m an expert at payday, trust me
Dreaming of a summer garden, the shade under the rhubarb leaves.
Have you any idea what the street value of this cookbook is?