Ohio Connections Literary Exhibit
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The Revenge of Cleveland, A Menu Against Nouvelle Cuisine
By Ray McNiece
At a restaurant a la arboretum
in a trendy alley back of Harvard Square,
I sit down to a platter
of minimalist philosophy
and wait for more.
When none comes I realize
this IS the entrée, and it hits me, this will cost:
Three slivers of salmon looking for the life of them
like play-dough cut-outs, a spot of goose liver paté
nudged under a scrap of spinach grown probably
in a petri dish, a dash of tortellinis, that disgrace to pasta,
an upscale garnish of designer legumes, and,
existentially enough, a single olive
sans pimento—the whole dish could be
a display of new wave jewelry.
Enough of this “less is more.”
More is more, and I want some.
Let’s start with dumpling soup, the aroma buoyed
by globules of chicken fat, the hundred suns
that never shine on gray Cleveland.
Bring on the perogies, and put a tub of cheese-whiz
made from artificial imitation processed cheese-food
at one elbow, and at the other a mound of sauerkraut
steaming like the Cuyahoga stirred by a scow
of a spring morning. Egg noodles too, rolled and cut
and ladled by my heavy Slovenian great aunts.
Pumpernickel smeared with lard.
Give me a bellyful of kielbasa-inspired indigestion
any day, a pile that makes you spout
“Lay on MacDuffski, and let no mouth cry,’Hold,
Enough!’ To top it off, a roll of petica and
a quivering dollop of pick jelly salad
straight from the Stuckey’s off the western pike
all frothed with non-dairy whip.
Enough of this light weight stuff
that lets you off to play squash or the stocks.
I want a heap of carbohydrates
so you can’t move the rest of the afternoon
chowed down in a bar
with the Browns game blaring.
A meal as profound and murky
as an immigrant cathedral,
as bland and fulfilling as a busload of Slovenians
coming home from Polka Varieties
dreaming of Sunday dinner.
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