Author: liz feltham

food writer / cookbook author / culinary red seal certification / newfoundland dog mom

Trout Fishing


I’m quite taken with this nonnet business, so the form is making its second appearance as we head into the second half of National Poetry Writing Month. Tonight’s topic, fishing, was inspired by the sound of the peepers as we walked the dogs tonight.

Chorus of peepers orchestrates dusk
Raccoon waddles to water’s edge
Mournful loons call over pond
Sun casts red-orange glow
Fireflies light path
Fishing creel full
Pan sizzles

Lobster Mac ‘n’ Cheese, please!

Lobster Mac n Cheese Collage

Best thing about writing a food poem daily is that I eat daily. So if I’m not hit by a bolt of genius, I can fall back on what I had for supper.

It’s getting late, I cannot wait
I’d like my supper on my plate

Grate the cheese, if you please
As the lobster meat I squeeze

Cook the noodles, don’t need oodles
There’s no time for drawing doodles

It’s getting late I cannot wait
I want my supper on my plate

In the dish the noodles squish
As I fulfill my dinner wish

Lobster in, for the win
Next the cooking can begin

It’s getting late I cannot wait
I need my supper on my plate

Cream and cheese, stirred in with ease
Breadcrumb topping, that will please

Oven bake, browned crust to make
Very soon I can partake

It’s getting late but no more wait
I have my supper on my plate!

Smoked Meat Sandwich


My great inspiration for a verse tonight is just what I had for supper. Which was smoked meat, so, nothing overly inspired. But what was inspired was a song that our former neighbour Jen once wrote about a smoked meat sandwich that I made, and I wish I could remember all the words. Jen’s now a wonderful yoga reiki life coach happiness person in Montreal, and as Montreal IS the home of the BEST smoked meat sandwiches, that is wonderfully, happily, fitting.
Go ahead! Visit her virtual home here and ask her about the smoked meat sandwich song yourself!

Choose your bread, it must be rye
Marble, dark or light
Pumperknickel in a pinch
But never wheat or white

Selection of the mustard type
Is of great import indeed
Dijon’s good, grainy’s best
To taste the mustard seed

Sauerkraut, piled up on high
For tangy taste of brine
And for a special added touch
I layer cheese on mine

Smoked meat steamed til warm and then
Prepare to meet your maker
‘Cause smoked meat ‘wich craft tends to make
me less giver than taker.

The Shape of Burger

Finally getting what seems to be real spring weather, and with it, the aroma of barbecue begins to waft down the street. And as much as we grill steaks, or ribs, or chicken, there’s nothing beats the old favourite hamburger. (Actually, nothing beats having my niece here to visit, and having her be so smart that she will humour her auntie when I wail “what am I going to write about?” by bawling out “Hamburger!”. This, I know, is to shut me up as she’s engrossed with multitasking with her phone, a movie, and a plate of brownies swiped from the university café)

Today’s poetry form, also suggested by brilliant niece, is shape. Burger, shaped like burger.

Sesame seeds adorn your crown
Of soft fresh bun of golden brown
Crispy bacon, tomato slices, melted cheddar
(The oak-smoked kind is all that much better)
Flattened disc of seasoned lean ground beef grilled
Olfactory glands, then taste buds, then belly thrilled
A side dish or two maybe salad, or corn or fries
Or coleslaw share the plate were the burger lies
Ketchup, mustard, relish, or pickle
Accessories for all but most fickle

Goops Redux

In penning my poem today,
I’m taking the limerick way
Cooking for guests
The house is a mess
No time for this poet to play!

In lieu of a lengthier original poem, here’s a favourite from last years’ NaPoWriMo:


(Originally posted April 25, 2013)

The Goops is a book I fondly remember from my childhood, both for being one of the books I first recall reading and for the delightful sing-songy rhythm of the poems, that schooled children in the art of manners. I sure didn’t want to be a Goop!
From the original “Table Manners”:

The Goops they lick their fingers, And the Goops they lick their knives;
They spill their broth on the tablecloth– Oh, they lead disgusting lives!
The Goops they talk while eating, And loud and fast they chew;
And that is why I’m glad that I Am not a Goop–are you?

It occurred to me that this tale could do with an update, and not for children but for the deplorable lack of table manners in our current society, where the need to be connected all the time, ironically enough, causes us to be disconnected from real life.

The Goops they text while eating, and loud as fast they squawk
On their phone, never alone, with the need to continually talk
The Goops they think they’re special, their self importance skewed
But in fact they look sad, and obnoxiously bad, not to mention radically rude!

Curry in a Hurry


Day 11 of NaPoWriMo finds me with a plethora of potential poems, but nothing easily rhymed. That is, until I thought about Friday night supper, and how at the end of the week, I want something decent and fast, and not too much work. But it should taste good. And be full of flavour, like Indian food. Like, well, curry in a hurry.

I’m hungry, and tired, and need to eat.
Don’t want to be cooking, and on my feet.
Want something quick, but not in the mood
For ordering pizza, or other fast food.
Turn to the fridge, looking for snacks
And there is my trusty jar of Patak’s.
Conveniently bottled, this paste of mild curry
Perfect for making my food in a hurry.
Slice up an onion, red is my fave
A can of chickpeas goes in for the save
Can of tomatoes, diced with the juice
Then open the jar, let curry paste loose
A teaspoon or two, more if you favour
Simmer a bit, then sit back and savour
Ready in no time, no fuss or flurry
Channa Masala, curry in hurry.