My Cat Eats Carnitas

Karen Cline-Tardiff

September 15, 2024

I catch him sneaking out 

late at night to the

taco stand down the street.

I’ve given him every brand of

cat food from HEB, from crunchy

to soft and soft middles,

But still I find his greasy

little paw prints on the

rug every morning.

Maybe the taco vendor feels

sorry for him, my cat singing

for his supper in tune with the AM

Tejano crackling from the radio.

He must be ordering in 

some secret sign language,

his tail swishing left

and right in Taco Code.

He gobbles up those crispy

little pieces of pork without

the need for a tortilla.

I wonder if he uses salsa,

or a little pico de gallo

covering those carnitas.

Maybe it only bothers me 

because he never asks

if I want to tag along.

Karen Cline-Tardiff has been writing as long as she could hold a pen. Her works have appeared in several anthologies and journals, both online and in print. She stays up too late and snoozes her alarm past any reasonable time. She is founder and Editor-in-Chief of Gnashing Teeth Publishing.

Tomatillos

Vincent Hostak

August 18, 2024

It seems a shame to cast away the husks

an extra skin they wore while ripening   

even through late summer’s brutal heat.

Tomatillos cling to heat all their short lives

from the trellis to the simmering pot

growing smooth, tart, stinging the taster’s tongue.

Their paper flesh is much too thin to pen 

a sonnet upon, or I know I’d try.

Fourteen lines on a tiny paper lantern

rising in the breeze of a kitchen fan,

floating past the skylight, landing on a chair.

That’s more like justice, a better end. Go now,

join the coffee grounds and shellfish scraps.  

Make friends of strangers in the compost bin.

Vincent Hostak is a writer and media producer from Texas now living near the Front Range of Colorado south of Denver. His recently published poems are found in the journals Sonder Midwest and the Langdon Review of the Arts in Texas and as a contributor to the TPA. He writes & produces the podcast: Crossings-the Refugee Experience in America.

Rouxminating

John Rutherford

August 4, 2024

Start with a cup of salted butter,

once it melts, wait a little more

just until it starts to sputter

then add a cup of flour and stir

as if you really mean it, thirty

minutes or more will pass by

until it looks right: brown, dirty;

like Mississippi water, or dark chai.

Keep it up just a moment longer,

you must make sure it doesn’t stick,

even if it doesn’t make you stronger,

the result will be nice: murky and thick.

Soon enough you’ll have the perfect roux,

thick and creamy for your gumbo stew.

John Rutherford is a poet writing in Beaumont, Texas. Since 2018 he has been an employee in the Department of English at Lamar University.

Austin Ice Cream

Jeffrey L. Taylor

August 4, 2024

Amy’s Mexican Vanilla is rico, rich.
Mexican Chocolate is mole, picante.
Cold heat.

Jeffrey L. Taylor is a retired Software Engineer.  Around 1990, poems started holding his sleep hostage.  He has been published in The Perch, California Quarterly, Texas Poetry Calendar, and Texas Poetry Assignment.

Comfort Food

Betsy Joseph

August 4, 2024

If a pandemic can offer a silver lining,

for me it would be this:

the Sunday ritual created

for our family of five who

gathered, observed safety measures,

and broke bread together.

Each weekly meal revolved around

a rotation of comforting favorites

such as pot roast, pork tenderloin, chicken pesto pasta

and always concluded with something sweet—

a small effort to counter the sorrow and frustration

which predictably rose, our anxiety heightened,

especially that first year.

This anticipated ritual kept us balanced

as we shifted to disposable products

and managed to maintain social distance

while delighting in the savory and sweet

and hugging with words.

Betsy Joseph lives in Dallas and has poems that have appeared in a number of journals and anthologies. She is the author of two poetry books published by Lamar University Literary Press: Only So Many Autumns (2019) and most recently, Relatively Speaking (2022), a collaborative collection with her brother, poet Chip Dameron. In addition, she and her husband, photographer Bruce Jordan, have produced two books, Benches and Lighthouses, which pair her haiku with his black and white photography.

The Sacred Spices

Chuck Etheridge

July 28, 2024

Comino, Chili, Salt, Pepper, Garlic Powder

The Five Pillars of Wisdom

The Pentateuch,

The Torah of South Texas Cuisine.

Comino, rich, dark brown,

Called “cumin” by some,

Brings the heat,

Opens the airways.

Chili, the deep warm red,

Adds spice,

Which is not the same

As heat.

Salt, the Biblical spice,

The covenant of friendship, 

Helps the tongue tell

One flavor from another.

Pepper, glorious in blackness,

Adds depth, 

Makes flavors sharper--

Use it sparingly.

Garlic, faintly yellow granules,

Opens flavors up,

Spreads more evenly through food

Than its fresh cousin.

This sacred five, 

This holy quinity,

The five-fold ministry,

The building blocks of life.

Together they manifest

Tantalizing tacos,

Fabulous fideo,

Pleasing picadillo,

Glorious guisada,

The list goes on,

Arroz, elote,

Carne al pastor…

The only debate,

How much of each to use,

Family secrets,

Or hand-written recipes

Abuela’s cookbook

A sacred trust.

My theory:

You can’t use too much comino.

My oldest son says

“You add comino until

Your ancestors rise from the grave and say,

‘Ja, mijo.  Basta,

‘That’s enough, son.’”

And then you add

A couple of shakes

More.

If your wife enters the house,

And can’t smell comino 

When the door opens,

You didn’t use enough.

Our faith 

Welcomes impure thought;

Divergence from the path of righteousness,

Yields delicious deviations.

Want to entertain heresy?

Remove the comino,

Add onion powder

And you have brisket rub.

Want to stay sacred

But veer away from doctrine,

Creating an apocrypha,

Still holy, but not quite pure?

Remove the chili

Add tempting turmeric

And a bit of oregano,

And you have sazon.

I share the Gospel with you

In all its glory, 

Go forth,

Spread the Good News:

Chili, Salt, Pepper, Garlic Powder,

And comino,

Blessed be

Comino’s holy name.

A self-proclaimed desert rat, Chuck Etheridge was raised in El Paso, Texas. After a stint in the US Navy keeping the coast of Southern California safe from the threat of enemy invasion, he attended the University of Texas at El Paso and TCU. In addition to his time in the service, he has worked as an actor, a convenience store clerk, a Rent-a-Poet, and a catalog copywriter (specialty: describing staplers) before finding respectable employment as a Professor of English at Texas A&M University-Corpus Christi and free-lance writer. He is the author of three novels, Chagford Revisited most recently, his poetry, fiction, and creative non-fiction have been published in a variety of reviews and anthologized in a number of books, and he has written two plays that have been produced. His most recent work can be found in the Level Land:  The I 35 Poems for and About the I 35 Corridor and Switchgrass Review.

Cooking tofu on the porch in an electric skillet

Herman Sutter

July 28, 2024

after marinating it

overnight in a bath

of soy sauce, maple 

syrup, garlic, chili

powder, ginger, and rice-

wine vinegar,

I sit here in the damp heat

delicately turning each soft slice

ginger and garlic sizzling into the air

trying carefully to singe the edges

turning each slice with care

to see that it burns only enough

just the way you like

because after 2 weeks of radiation

singeing the inside of your stomach

with such delicate care 

it is all you ask for

though the smell 

of cooking makes you sick

When I come inside

plate of browned 

dominos (we used to call them) still hot

(just the way you like)

with delicate care you will 

take one and smile

(and that will be too much)

And even as you push the plate away 

you will thank me for 

them 

all

Herman Sutter (award-winning poet/essayist) is the author of Stations (Wiseblood Books), and The World Before Grace (Wings Press), and “The Sorrowful Mystery of Racism,” St. Anthony Messenger. His work appears in: The Perch (Yale University), The Langdon Review, Benedict XVI Institute, Touchstone, i.e., The Merton Journal, as well as: Texas Poetry Calendar (2021) & By the Light of a Neon Moon (Madville Press, 2019). He received the 2021 Best Essay award from the CMA. His recent manuscript A Theology of Need was long listed for the Sexton prize.

Off Sabine Pass

Milton Jordan

July 28, 2024

Two refugee sisters opened their shop 

at Tenth and Lakeway selling the catch 

their father, brother, and both husbands 

brought in evenings from a day on the Gulf,

displayed the next in their Fresh Catch coolers,

marked half-price in another for a second,

as third-day remainders for their own families

fresher yet than supermarket specials.

You and I had the Thursday morning habit 

of selecting from second-day items,

often crab, maybe flounder, seldom shrimp

or redfish, for our Cajun recipe 

spicy gumbo we enjoyed Fridays

with leftovers for the weekend.

Milton Jordan lives with Anne in Georgetown, Texas. He co-edited the first Texas Poetry Assignment anthology, Lone Star Poetry, Kallisto Gaia Press, 2022. Anne and Milton lived in Port Arthur for a few years in the 1990s.

family reunion

d. ellis phelps

July 28, 2024

make the beds           bake a sheet cake

sweep the house        buy fresh flowers

fire up the brisket that’ll smoke for hours

everybody comes carrying loads:

chips and queso    cases of coke          

smores for late night campfire smoke

we celebrate birthdays      dads and grads

tease all the cousins as we tell & retell

family stories we remember well

kids swim and play volleyball 

splash in the pool     holler & wrestle

laugh out loud          bounce in a castle

after a while we’re all played out

bellies full of brisket & homemade bread

no doubt about it:  this family’s been fed

~

i’ve played the roles i’ve come to play:

mother grandmother aunt wife

is there more than this to life

i’ve spent hours in my garden 

i’ve written verse & painted vessels

i’ve taught such things to listening pupils 

i’ve watched birds and creature beings

i’ve lazed      nested      worked when i should

i’ve ridden roller coasters when i could

i might have given time to science

i might have jumped from a flying plane

i might have worked for money or fame

tho after this day      the food      the fire

i wonder under starlit sky

why would i.   i ask you.   why?

d. ellis phelps’ work has appeared widely online and in print. She is the author of four poetry collections and one novel and the editor of Moon Shadow Sanctuary Press (MSSP) and of the digital journal fws:  international journal of literature & art where she publishes the work of others.

When the Waiter Switched Our Desserts

Laurie Kolp

July 28, 2024

Come on now. You know Key Lime Pie 

beats cheesecake every time.

Even if I call your bluff, 

you know I do not approve 

of such connivance 

as trying to convince me otherwise.

Yes, there might be cherries 

on top of cheesecake; 

and yes, I have watched you 

tie cherry stems into knots 

with your tongue— I am not blind. 

I simply prefer Key Lime Pie. 

It reminds me of freshly mown grass, 

petrichor’s earthy scent after rain. 

Lime makes me want to frolic, 

makes me think of kids 

skipping in parks and rolling down hills. 

Can’t you see I need that Key Lime Pie? 

Its tartness flushes away

the pent-up pallid way I feel, 

not cheesecake. I need the vitality 

of green to boost my appetite for life, 

the zing of lime to make me feel alive 

in this very moment. The green 

of a golf course, the sheen of

emerald, your smiling eyes. 

Now give me that Key Lime Pie.

Laurie Kolp is the author of the full-length collection, Upon the Blue Couch, and chapbook, Hello, It's Your Mother. Her poetry has been published worldwide. She has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and Orison Anthology of spiritually engaged writing. Laurie also enjoys reading, running, and spending time with her family.