Attitudes. W. Ross Winterowd
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Invited out to dine last night,
We’d have gladly taken flight;
As guests, we had no alibis
And met Pale Tuber in disguise,
Posing as a salad green,
The worst imposture we have seen.
Legumes
Pea
On the vine, it rises high,
Its goal the vastness of the sky.
Secure within its cunning pod,
It soars beyond the earthy sod.
In the ether there with Jack,
It never dreamed of coming back.
The pea—who ever would have thought
It longed to be an astronaut.
In a row by one another,
Sister pea and legume brother,
Secure against the force of G’s,
In their capsule quite at ease,
Had no inkling that their fate
Was actually a dinner plate.
Soya
Since soy bean is a bricoleur,
The handyman without a peer,
When we say “soya” in our house,
We always think of Lévi-Strauss.
Fermented juice of soy’s a sauce
That saves our rice from total loss
Though honestly I must confess
I think tofu’s a tasteless mess.
My farmer friend, I swear, avows
The soybean nourishes his cows.
This legume, whether cooked or raw,
Preoccupies Jacques Derrida.
Bean I
John Kenneth Bean is enigmatic.
With wieners he is democratic,
And yet in Julia’s cassoulet
He turns elitist, slightly fey.
His pronouncements economic
Seem to me a little comic
When with sombrero and guitar
In chili he becomes a star.
With eloquence he makes us humble.
We listen as our stomachs rumble,
Sitting stiff, in mortal terror
Of that most disgraceful error.
Bean II
Professor Twist’s Last Expedition
Ogden Nash’s exposition
Chronicled the expedition
To the land of crocodile,
The upper reaches of the Nile.
I give you now Professor Twist,
A conscientious scientist.
Trustees exclaimed, “He never bungles!”
And sent him off to distant jungles.
Camped on a tropic riverside,
One day he missed his loving bride.
She had, the guide informed him later,
Been eaten by an alligator.
Professor Twist could not but smile.
“You mean,” he said, “a crocodile.”
That was in . . . uh . . . let me see,
The year of nineteen twenty-three.
In thirty-three he set out on
A journey up the Amazon.
After hardship you can’t describe,
He came upon a savage tribe,
Healthy, happy, without disease—
Twist barely reached up to their knees.
Eagerly he told their chief,
“Your followers defy belief.
They get their vigor by what means?”
The chief replied, “We eat-um beans.”
“Beans? Beans? What kind?” Poor Twist was wild.
“Yooman beans!” The chief just smiled.
Grain
Oats
On a frosty winter morn,
I have my choice: oats, wheat, or corn.
In March when all the ways are slush,
I choose to start my day with mush.
Cracked wheat is hearty and nutritious;
Corn meal is soothing and delicious;
But oatmeal laced with heavy cream
And honey globs has my esteem.
You see, in German my name, “Ross,”
Means “stallion.” (You can call me “Hoss.”)
When offered oats at break of day,
We prancing kind just can’t say, “Neigh!”
Wheat
When as a child I walked from school,
Wading through the pool on pool
Of fallen leaves along the way
On lawn and sidewalk where they lay
And heard their rustle and their crunch,
(Three hours ago I’d downed my lunch),
I sniffed the air, a very hound,
Alert to every smell and sound,
The musty odor of the mums,
The chuffing engine’s distant drums,
And saw ripe apples hanging late,
Too high for me to depredate.
A block from home, I pause, I freeze.
The smell of bread is on the breeze.
I clasp my “Dick and Jane” securely,
For I understand most surely
That wheat when ground is more than flour:
It’s endowed with mystic power.
Baking bread in Bombay, Rome,
Or Salt Lake City signals “home.”
Rye
You can serve it slice by slice.
You can pour it over ice.
It goes well with ham or soda,
Vermouth, corned beef, bitters, gouda.
Loaf or bottle, worth a try.
With rye you’ll never go awry.
Rice
“I wouldn’t leave Beijing,” said Mao,
“For all the rice in Sacramento.”
You see, the Chairman clearly knew
A fact