Cooking, like putting carrots and lentils together with purple onions, juxtaposing colors and textures, infusing liquid and spices, gives me immense pleasure. Once a month I get a chance to impose my taste on my friends. Sometimes they have to suffer through failed experiments, but that’s the nature of alchemy.
The Sunday salon potluck is always a spontaneous affair. Regulars like Steve Mackin always brings a fine cake, Stephanie Manning comes with her trusty cheese and crackers, Dan Brady with dips and chips and Carlos Ramirez, fruits, and sometimes flowers. Food appears and disappears on the table. Poets are hearty eaters.
My stepmother came to one of the poet’s potlucks at the Sutro Heights Park in 2006. Being a traditional Chinese woman she wanted to make sure everyone was well fed and made a big tray of soy-sauce chicken legs. She watched with surprise delight as the tray was promptly emptied. She didn’t understand the poems, but she understood the smiles and thank yous and the handshakes she received that day.
