Hickory Smoked Turkey

It's been over a year since I've written here but I am excited to share my review of the new poetry book, Under the Kaufmann's Clock by Angele Ellis, photography by Rebecca Clever. Upon opening Under the Kaufmann’s Clock, Angele Ellis takes you to the streets of Pittsburgh where you immediately feel at home.   The narrator seamlessly interweaves the characters and relationships in her life with the city, and insists that you sit down with her at the local café to study the ground beneath.   To compliment the gritty and oftentimes stark moments of pain, are photographs by Rebecca Clever.   Clever captures the vulnerable and iconic elements of Pittsburgh without pretense or ego.   Community and relationship drive both the works of Ellis and Clever. Ellis walks us through the four seasons which take on a unique tone in the city.   The first poem, “Landscape,” from the “Spring” section of the book, vibrates with a sense of longing and beauty that can onl...

I'm going to put it all out there in a very evasive and somewhat whiny way.  What I'm actually going to do is complain about writing. The past few months I've started writing more frequently, which is great.  As a writer, I should be writing all the time.  I should have a daily schedule for writing.  I should sit in front of my computer for hours on end, work on a poem, re-work a poem, revise said poem and continue the process until a manuscript is in my hands.  None of this has happened.  Part of the reason may be my natural ability to only do small tasks at a time.  I've never been one to dive into a huge project and become totally immersed.  I'm more of a "dip your toes in and see how it feels" kind of gal.  But, to get back on track, I have been writing more yet I feel really crappy about my writing. A few years ago I moved back to Pittsburgh and dealt with an emotional break-up.  I had four jobs, worked an insane amount of hours...

This is Thanksgiving I. Four o’clock I ring my parents’ doorbell my dad answers wearing a red, green and blue plaid shirt. He hugs me      his cheeks warm from the outdoors takes the bowl of stuffing and says: You missed it.   Your sister choked on a piece of pineapple and your brother gave her the Heimlich. I sigh; take off my jacket as my dad brings the stuffing to my mom in the kitchen. I fail to notice he has no pants on. I am used to this. II. An hour later Dad yells: Turkey’s done.   Come get a picture. I walk out the back door to where my dad stands next to the Weber grill. He ceremoniously takes the lid off pretends to be surprised at how lovely the crisp but tender bird looks. Get closer, Stef. He lifts the turkey off the grill. I lean in and take a photo and ten more after that. This is Thanksgiving. III. I drink too much wine as I sit at the table and fill my plate. I talk loudly. I...

Last night I asked my writing class to describe their writing voice.  While they were working on the exercise I took a whack at it as well. **** My writing voice tastes like sugared mint and rum. My writing voice looks like my grandma as she sat in her recliner, reading the Detroit Free Press and listening to the Tigers on the radio. My writing voice smells like coffee with sugar.  I always drink it black. My writing voice sounds like a meditation or pure sarcasm. My writing voice feels like the afghans my mom crocheted, laying on the couch.

  First and Last Date The moment he said “ I'll be the one smoking at the bar reading the "Tao of Winnie the Pooh,” I should have known. I should have faked an illness and cancelled the date. I should have. Instead, I took the stool close to the door leaned in close and listened. Listened to the story of his heartbreak his time spent in a Buddhist monastery. All the while, I kept thinking: He spent time in a Buddhist monastery. He can't be that bad. But, each time I leaned in closer noticed the scent of cigarettes, stale coffee and beer looked at each pore on his face and pieced together the fact that he looked nothing like his profile picture I never once believed that the date would be going anywhere. No matter how good his stories were. After two hours of listening never quite being heard I sat still and kept drinking. When he offered to walk me home even though he lived a block a...

It's like "Wife Swap"... only way better! Listen to four local writers, have some snacks and donate to a good cause.  See you on August 20th.

Hickory Smoked Turkey Oringinally published by : http://www.samizdada.com/2007/01/29/hickory-smoked-turkey/ Ten years ago my father started cooking the Thanksgiving bird outside on the grill. Designer coal and hickory branded the meat, crisp brown skin. I take a picture, every year, of my father lifting the meat off the fire. An entire photo album dedicated to the Thanksgiving animal. A body sectioned off, cut through by an electric knife. Electric. Edges, almost pink, lie on my plate. After every bite my father inquires, with an almost schoolboy curiosity, Can you taste the hickory chips? Can you? Every Thanksgiving my father offers me a plate of flesh. You still eat turkey, right? Don’t you miss the hickory? My sarcastic plate of potatoes, squash, and lettuce send my father into a wine-washed monologue of eating meat. Seriously, you don’t want to try a little piece? I do, but I would never tell him. I look at the bird and recall the animal. I decline once again. Truth: Most turkeys d...