Ted Kooser is so ridiculously good, I don't even know what to say about the guy. Spring is coming, and rhubarb always comes with spring, so here is some foreshadowing:
How to Make Rhubarb Wine
By Ted Kooser
Go to the patch some afternoon
in early summer, fuzzy with beer
and sunlight, and pick a sack
of rhubarb (red or green will do)
and God knows watch for rattlesnakes
or better, listen: they make a sound
like an old lawnmower rolled downhill.
Wear a hat. A straw hat's best
for the heat but lets the gnats in.
Bunch up the stalks and chop the leaves off
with a buck-knife and be careful.
You need ten pounds; a grocery bag
packed full will do it. then go home
and sit barefooted in the shade
behind the house with a can of beer.
Spread out the rhubarb in the grass
and wash it with cold water
from the garden hose, washing
your feet as well. Then take a nap.
That evening, dice the rhubarb up
and put it in a crock. Then pour
eight quarts of boiling water in,
cover it up with a checkered cloth
to keep the fruit flies out of it,
and let it stand five days or so.
Take time each day to think of it.
When the time is up, dip out the pulp
with your hands for strainers; leave the juice.
Stir in five pounds of sugar
and an envelope of Red Star yeast.
Ferment ten days, under the cloth,
sniffing of it from time to time,
then siphon it off, swallowing some,
and bottle it. Sit back and watch
the liquid clear to honey-yellow,
bottled and ready for the years,
and smile. You've done it awfully well.
******
Whenever I read his poetry, I always want to talk smack afterward - like "how can you be better than that?!?" and "this guy puts you RIGHT there - right in the yard with that beer and that fuzzy, sunny feeling - this is IT man!!" and "why would I want to read some old dusty, wordy Shakespeare when I can get with a guy who can take me places and show me things!?!" I LOVE YOU TED!! And heck, I've only got ONE of your books!
How to Make Rhubarb Wine
By Ted Kooser
Go to the patch some afternoon
in early summer, fuzzy with beer
and sunlight, and pick a sack
of rhubarb (red or green will do)
and God knows watch for rattlesnakes
or better, listen: they make a sound
like an old lawnmower rolled downhill.
Wear a hat. A straw hat's best
for the heat but lets the gnats in.
Bunch up the stalks and chop the leaves off
with a buck-knife and be careful.
You need ten pounds; a grocery bag
packed full will do it. then go home
and sit barefooted in the shade
behind the house with a can of beer.
Spread out the rhubarb in the grass
and wash it with cold water
from the garden hose, washing
your feet as well. Then take a nap.
That evening, dice the rhubarb up
and put it in a crock. Then pour
eight quarts of boiling water in,
cover it up with a checkered cloth
to keep the fruit flies out of it,
and let it stand five days or so.
Take time each day to think of it.
When the time is up, dip out the pulp
with your hands for strainers; leave the juice.
Stir in five pounds of sugar
and an envelope of Red Star yeast.
Ferment ten days, under the cloth,
sniffing of it from time to time,
then siphon it off, swallowing some,
and bottle it. Sit back and watch
the liquid clear to honey-yellow,
bottled and ready for the years,
and smile. You've done it awfully well.
******
Whenever I read his poetry, I always want to talk smack afterward - like "how can you be better than that?!?" and "this guy puts you RIGHT there - right in the yard with that beer and that fuzzy, sunny feeling - this is IT man!!" and "why would I want to read some old dusty, wordy Shakespeare when I can get with a guy who can take me places and show me things!?!" I LOVE YOU TED!! And heck, I've only got ONE of your books!
posted by Wendy Berrell at 11:05 PM
3 Comments:
Anyone who writes poetry about rhubarb is okay in my book.
Anyone who writes poetry about beer is okay with me. :) That's great stuff, thanks!
Not to put you in a smack-talking mood, but I just thought you might also enjoy some of Gary Snyder's stuff. Here's one of my favorites and I was somehow reminded of it reading this...
A Walk
Sunday the only day we don't work:
Mules farting around the meadow,
Murphy fishing,
The tent flaps in the warm
Early sun: I've eaten breakfast and I'll
Take a walk
To Benson Lake. Packed a lunch,
Goodbye. Hopping on creekbed boulders
Up the rock throat three miles
Puite Creek --
In steep gorge glacier-slick rattlesnake country
Jump, land by a pool, trout skitter,
The clear sky. Deer tracks.
Bad place by a falls, boulders big as houses,
Lunch tied to belt,
I stemmed up a crack and almost fell
But rolled out safe on a ledge
and ambled on.
Quail chicks freeze underfoot, color of stone
Then run cheep! away, hen quail fussing.
Craggy west end of Benson Lake -- after edging
Past dark creek pools on a long white slope --
Lookt down in the ice-black lake
lined with cliff
From far above: deep shimmering trout.
A lone duck in a gunsightpass
steep side hill
Through slide-aspen and talus, to the east end,
Down to grass, wading a wide smooth stream
Into camp. At last.
By the rusty three-year-
Ago left-behind cookstove
Of the old trail crew,
Stoppt and swam and ate my lunch.
Wow, that is good stuff. Makes me wish I had gotten that rhubarb planted last year...And I usually do my garden tasks accompanied by a beer. :)
Post a Comment
<< Home