Messy. But so tasty, too.

You see, I read on the following poem on the e-mail version of The Writer's Almanac this morning:


You made crusty bread rolls...

You made crusty bread rolls filled with chunks of brie
And minced garlic and drizzled with olive oil
And baked them until the brie was bubbly
And we ate them thoughtfully, our legs coiled
Together under the table And then salmon with dill
And lemon and whole-wheat cous cous
Baked with garlic and fresh ginger, and a hill
Of green beans and carrots roasted with honey and tofu.
it was beautiful, the candles and linens and silver,
The winter sun setting on our snowy street,
Me with my hand on your leg, you, my lover,
In your jeans and green T-shirt and beautiful feet.
How simple life is. We buy a fish. We are fed.
We sit close to each other, we talk and then we go to bed.

by Gary Johnson


And at first I read it and thought how nice it would be to live like that, and how I wished my husband and I ate our beautiful dinner with our legs coiled together and watched the sun set and then sat close and talked until we went to bed (and had passionate, tender, better-than-the-rest-of-the-world sex; I think that's clearly implied in the poem).

And then I thought: Who actually lives like that? Who eats salmon and brie and honey and tofu? I suppose there are people who eat these things, thoughtfully, and enjoy their simple, poetic, quiet, meaningful lives. Half of me wishes I were this kind of person; and the other half resents the poet for being this kind of person and writing a poem about it. They probably listened to a Beethoven concerto too.

So I wrote this poem, about a dinner at my house, instead.

I made spaghetti for dinner…

I made spaghetti for dinner, filled with noodles
And sloppy with sauce and the meatballs
Were made of ground turkey and they were few
And far between, because meat is expensive
And we ate them quickly, our hands reaching
To wipe the tomato-streaked faces of our children. And then
Canned green beans and the littlest one threw them to the floor with glee
And bread which I made from the same recipe I always make
And smeared some butter on at the last minute
It was messy, the noodles and the splatters and the giggles
The spilled milk slipping over the table like falling snow
Me wiping and eating and talking all at once and you, my lover
In your polo shirt and corporate ID badge and smiling brown eyes.
How simple life is. We slurp our noodles. We are fed.
We bathe the squirming children, we fall to the couch and then we go to bed

I wanted to draw a strong contrast to the lovely and perfect evening described in the first poem, and I meant to imply that life is messy and full and tiring, and yet not drudgery.

I didn't want to idealize how "fun" and "happy" family life is--just to say that this, too, is something good.