POEM: The Last Polenta

As Mother Nature is pulling down the shade on summer and a cold front is moving through Wisconsin, I have been thinking about polenta on this evening of rapidly dropping temperatures.  For my taste buds, polenta is the conssumate Italian comfort food–especially during cool or chilly weather.  Just a few days ago, I enjoyed some polenta.  If you refer to my blog post of April 6, 2013, you will find my dad’s recipes for polenta and bagnetto so that you can also enjoy some polenta.  Meanwhile, I invite you to read the following poem which I wrote on January 8, 2012, and which was inspired by the last polenta my dad made for my sister, my younger nephew, my mother, and me.

 

 

The Last Polenta

 

by Alice Jane-Marie Massa

 

 

The second son of four,

my father first developed his culinary skills

when my amazingly strong grandmother was uncharacteristically ill

for about one year.

From Tank Destroyer in World War II

to firefighter, chief fire and safety inspector–

my father cooked for our family and more.

 

At a robust and cheery 84,

he was still cooking—

preparing meals for and caring for my mother

whose business mind had drifted to a softer place.

On that October, Hoosier day of 1997,

from far-off states–

my sister, my younger nephew, and I

gathered for what was—

unbeknownst to us—

the final polenta

made by my dad.

As usual, he stood in front of the stove,

with his six-foot/one Army posture and wooden spoon in hand,

and turned the cornmeal into polenta.

After setting a special board atop the dining room table,

he covered the board with a special linen cloth,

then sprinkled some dry cornmeal on the checkered cloth.

At just the right time,

my dad dumped the steaming polenta onto the sacred cloth.

Once again—success!

The polenta slowly oozed to the edges of the board

to form a beautiful, sedate mound of polenta.

Of course, he made the wonderful tomato and egg sauce,

which we call “bagnet,”

a rosy pink to top the sun yellow polenta

which was lovingly surrounded by salada, chicken cacciatore

and green beans fried in butter and oil

and crowned with the white diamonds of Italy—

Before the cerebral hemorrhage that struck one month later

came this polenta

that will stick to my bones, my heart, my memory

 

At least four years passed

before I could eat polenta without tears;

however, now I always eat polenta

with thoughts of my father

and with thanks to him–

forever thanks to him.

 

NOTE:  As I remember my father on this evening, I also think of his older brother–my Uncle Charlie–because this September 10 marks the 103rd anniversary of Uncle Charlie’s birth.  (You will read more about the four Massa brothers in a future blog post, late this autumn.)

 

On this eve of the 13th anniversary of 9/11,

God bless all around your table and God bless America–

 

Alice and Zoe

 

September 10, 2014, Wednesday

 

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