recipe

Tamales at Andrea’s

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

At her Penn Hills home an endless view
of rain green wide windows. With sink hot
faucet water we tear banana leaf a piece
of wallpaper press the masa they prepped
into dried dark a sturdy table.

Drop sauce, fork pork, wrap ribbon
makes pride and we learn to live
again. Almost a year still fresh
the big bowl of dead animal we gather
around. Andrea says steam in leaf

adds floral flavor, a life
to death jiggling within us–
oh, sweet touch of camaraderie,
hugs on a late December
Saturday. You were afraid

we started the day too early, but
we are in our mid-thirties. I wanted
to begin yesterday the festivities
that let us remember why we
remain alive– brown butter cookies

and the love, so much love in the living
room. When we get to the presents–
having already unwrapped our proud
banana leaves, there are Penguin
classics, band t-shirts, soy candles

but what we’d trade for anything–
white elephant– is more time.

(originally published in Triggerfish Critical Review, Summer 2024)

Bundt Cake!

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

The recipe I research online
calls for Mountain Dew
(or Mello Yello, if one prefers)
and I’m curious if it becomes
a lemon tea with a reservoir
of sugar in it. What happens
to the bubbles? Do they turn
into a slime? I buy a liter
from IGA, ignite the oven to
a torrid Fahrenheit, hotter than
my usual showers that set off
the second-floor smoke alarm.
Grease and flour in the Bundt
pan, fluted and grooved and
eternally circular– my partner
wonders if I have the expertise
to do this, and I read her the
recipe, which she says is not
typical– the carbonation nor
instant pudding it calls for,
the boxed cake mix plucked
from a million others at the store.
But in a large bowl I combine
everything: the oil, the powder,
the eggs, one at a time, and stir
in the lemon-lime soda.
It has a texture like roof tar
when I tell her I don’t even
enjoy Bundt cake, I just wanted
to do something productive with
my day after being laid off.
She helps me pour the sludge
and bake until I insert a toothpick
into the center. We let it cool.

(originally published in Sybil Journal, Summer 2023)

Cooking Potatoes

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

The longer potatoes taste air, the more
they rust over time. We strummed
guitars with calloused fingertips
(melodious incision). The pot

overfills from the weight of boiling.
We whistled unfamiliar tunes through
afternoon orgasms. My teeth cannot chew
the raw. Steam will temper the room

enough to sustain our songs in my head.
I always liked to mix vegetables
into the mash, the music, but the days
are already too easy to cry. The onion

remains sheathed in its flaky armor.
Bunches of corn are never shucked.
Even the cheddar stays in plastic past
when these potatoes soften enough

to feed. The chords are always
harsh. We could never eat our fill.

 

(originally published in The Wagon Magazine, Autumn 2016)