In these last days before fall sets in, Kathryn Neel’s latest Eating and Drinking Poems post invites us to recall lazy summer days of childhood by tempting us with cool, homemade strawberry ice cream.
Summer is coming to an end. Soon we will be trading in shorts for sweaters, beach towels for school books or briefcases, and sunny, hot days for more temperate weather. So, in honor of the last days of summer, I share with you an old family recipe for strawberry ice cream to go with May Swenson’s poem, “Strawberrying.”
Try remembering what it was like as a child to eat fresh, homemade ice cream and to lie in the grass staring at lightning bugs or the stars, feeling all was right with the world.
My hands are murder-red. Many a plump head
drops on the heap in the basket. Or, ripe
to bursting, they might be hearts, matching
the blackbirds’s wing-fleck. Gripped to a reed
he shrieks his ko-ka-ree in the next field.
He’s left his peck in some juicy cheeks, when
at first blush and mostly white, they showed
streaks of sweetness to the marauder.
We’re picking near the shore, the morning
sunny, a slight wind moving rough-veined leaves
our hands rumple among. Fingers find by feel
the ready fruit in clusters. Here and there,
their squishy wounds….Flesh was perfect
yesterday….June was for gorging….
sweet hearts young and firm before decay.
“Take only the biggest and not too ripe,”
a mother calls to her girl and boy, barefoot
in the furrows. “Don’t step on any. Don’t
change rows. Don’t eat too many.” Mesmerized
by the largesse, the children squat and pull
and pick handfuls of rich scarlets, half
for the baskets, half for avid mouths.
Soon, whole faces are stained.
A crop this big begs for plunder. Ripeness
wants to be ravished, as udders of cow when hard,
the blue-veined bags distended, ache to be stripped.
Hunkered in mud between the rows, sun burning
the backs of our necks, we grope for, and rip loose
soft nippled heads. If they bleed—too soft—
let them stay. Let them rot in the heat.
When, hidden away in a damp hollow under moldy
leaves, I come upon a clump of heart-shapes
once red, now spiderspit-gray, intact but empty,
still attached to their dead stems—
families smothered as at Pompeii—I rise
and stretch. I eat one more big ripe lopped
head. Red-handed, I leave the field.
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“Delicate, suggestive, clever.” —Carl Sharpe, editor ofVerseWrights