Monday, November 21, 2011

I forgot to remind you that it's time to make Emily Dickinson's Black Cake. I'll be glad to forward the recipe, if you're interested. I also forgot to tell you that, one of these days, both the recipe and my chatter about its history will appear in a Tupelo Press poets' cookbook edited by Kurt Brown. I wonder what else will be in there. All I got was an email from Kurt, whom I've never met, asking me to submit a recipe. Naturally Black Cake came to mind, but I also started thinking about other poet-cooks.

In Her Husband, biographer Diane Middlebrook wrote about how Sylvia Plath obstinately worked her way through The Joy of Cooking during the early months of her marriage to Ted Hughes. If I remember correctly, they were living in a hut (in Spain, perhaps?), and meanwhile Sylvia wrestled with lemon meringue pie and other 1950s American delights. I found the tale disturbing, touching, and characteristic. Also familiar.

I cook; therefore I am.


I cook; therefore I am ________ .




[worth staying married to]


Carol Willette Bachofner said...

forward black cake recipe for sure (sounds as if it might contain molasses???) I am making figgy pudding, which has figs, but is definitely not pudding.

Dawn Potter said...

Here it is, Carol--