Gluttony 7 Deadly Sins Vol. 2

Gluttony: 7 Deadly Sins Vol. 2

stories, poems and essays

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A Pure Slush E-book

Copyright

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First published as a collection in paperback June 2018

First published as an eBook collection June 2018

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Content copyright © Pure Slush Books and individual authors

Edited by Matt Potter

All rights reserved by the author and publisher. Except for brief excerpts used for review or scholarly purposes, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without express written consent of the publisher or the author/s.

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Pure Slush Books

32 Meredith Street

Sefton Park SA 5083

Australia

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Email: edpureslush@live.com.au

Website: https://pureslush.com/

Pure Slush Store: https://pureslush.com/store/

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Cover design by Matt Potter

Original cover photograph copyright © Michal Zacharzewski

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ISBN: 978-1-925536-55-3

Also available in paperback / ISBN: 978-1-925536-54-6

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A note on differences in punctuation and spelling

Pure Slush Books proudly features writers from all over the English-speaking world. Some speak and write English as their first language, while for others, it’s their second or third or even fourth language. Naturally, across all versions of English, there are differences in punctuation and spelling, and even in meaning. These differences are reflected in the work Pure Slush Books publishes, and accounts for any differences in punctuation, spelling and meaning found within these pages.

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Pure Slush Books is a member of the Bequem Publishing collective  http://www.bequempublishing.com/

Poetry

Ossobucco

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by Valerie Lawson

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Rose fed veal makes the dish,

choice-cut top of the shank

five inches across, two inches thick.

Leave the skin to hold it together.

Let the soffritto take its time.

Dredge, sauté, arrosto morto—

turn the meat, braise tenderly.

Plunder the spice road: nutmeg,

cloves, cinnamon—saffron

for the risotto excites the tongue.

Oss bus, hollow bone, marrow mouth

lends a velvet shine to the sauce.

Gremalatto cuts the sweetness

with zest. Costasera Amarone

to wash down humble cucina.

Fine linen tucked at the chin

to catch the dripping grease

the back of the hand smears

more on red bloated cheeks

the curse of deep hunger.

Gelato

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by Michael Estabrook

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"I just realized that Michelangelo’s David

is the David who slays Goliath

in the Bible," says John

his face beaming.

My eyes widen

as I realize not everyone

on this tour of Venice, Florence and Rome

is here for the art, history and culture.

I also realize that rather

than learning about these things

these people are here

to spend their money on gold jewelry

leather goods, wine and Murano glass

to see olive trees and vineyards

and eat Mozzarella Fritta, Antipasto, Calamari

Gamberi Spiedo, Bruschetta, Penne al Pomodoro

Tortelloni All’aragosta, Rigatoni con Luganega

Spaghetti alla Bolognese, Porcini Agnolotti

Gnocchi di Sorrento, Ravioli al Pomodoro

Pollo Parmigiano, Filetto Balsamico

Vitello Piccata, Panna Cotta, Torta di Formaggio

Mousse di Cioccolato Torta, Tiramisu

Coppa di Gelato Guarnita

topped off with an Espresso

and a glass of delicious Courvoisier Cognac.

The Perfect Meal

(Radisson Blue, Fiji)

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by Rob Walker

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A symphony of fish and prawns

with Indonesian spices, lychees, lime.

(Perhaps the Massaman Sir might prefer?)

Optimism briefly dawns.

A handsome cast

a waiting staff who flatter and defer

in smooth utterings. Take your time!

The menu is diverse and vast.

Red lips and brilliant blue sarong,

white hibiscus tucked in midnight hair.

But non-core promises soon go dry.

The menu is misleading, wrong,

a dodgy deal.

The proffered discount card does not apply.

The signature dish just isn’t there.

Like fishbones in your throat, this meal…

Comfort

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by Melisa Quigley

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Staring at your picture

on the mantlepiece

picking it up

and holding it close

now life’s not the same

Watching you wither

made my appetite wane

Since you’ve been gone

I’m gourmandising on food

People think I’m happy

but I’m a landslide inside

A friend called me a glutton

which I found very rude

If she only knew how I felt

she would understand

food is my saviour

it nurtures and comforts

where no one else can

A Different Kind Of Light

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by Chuck Madansky

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When I’ve eaten all the chips,

I write it on the list,

and soon there will be more.

This more has followed me from birth.

The earth has tilted just so,

has shaken the not-so-much,

the less, the never, onto other lives,

other lists. I have visited

their houses and bare shelves,

their cardboard on the street grates,

and handed some to them,

knowing there was always more.

O, the secret price of more—

blankets laced with smallpox,

produce picked for pennies,

blue jeans sewn in chains.

Torches lead the way

to keep the world

on tilt to more…

we need a different kind

of light to say

Enough.

Beads In New Orleans

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by Lucy Tyrrell

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I walk from trolley to café.

Azaleas paint gardens

pink, white.

Camellias scatter

fading cups of color

on the sidewalk.

Beads abandoned after Mardi Gras

dangle from sharp spears

of wrought-iron fences—

gold for power

purple for justice

green for faith.

Seated at curved counter

in Camellia Grill,

I fork chocolate pecan pie

bite by bite, piece by piece—

syrupy sweetness, nutty crunch,

smooth dark melt.

For my pie indulgence,

I should festoon myself

with strings of beads—

but of a color other than

green, purple, gold.

Where can I find strands

of corpulent beads—

orange for gluttony?

Over Hungry

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by Shane Guthrie

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I’ve done some stress eating at parties

I’ll admit it

Dumb, but not a sin

I’ve eaten a single messy faceful of cake

Before throwing the whole thing away

I’ve read everything an author has published

Then found out he was dead and cried

But not from guilt

I asked for every story your youth could deliver

Every broken bone and high-school rumor

Every sled ride and first kiss

Every shameful thing that turned you on

That was sweeter than sugar

But the way I called too much

The way I asked for your time

then demanded, then begged

Before you refused another word

That was pure gluttony

Anniversary Of Eve

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by Jan Chronister

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The apple I ate

weighs heavy inside

and the premature summer night

leads to wild thoughts of

sweat-shiny bodies

already another year older.

I’m trying to starve my mind

but my gluttony only increases

when I see the serpent in the

form of one of

last year’s suppers.

Dessert

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by Jan Haag

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On those balmy June evenings

I became your Charlotte of pears,

you my summer berry grunt,

and we could not get enough.

We became gluttons,

a rhubarb mess,

tiny raspberry fools

who found it difficult

to weather the warm days

until our arms could

reach for each other—

orange buckle,

treacle sponge—

an endless dessert,

often without dinner first,

as dusk came on.

You, my black bun

I, your pond pudding

inhaling the sweetness

at the bottom of the pie

before licking the plate clean

sticky fingers in mouths,

giggles erupting from

satiated throats, from

over-sweetened tongues

the newly discovered nectar,

the intoxicating trifle

of us.

A River

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by Piet Nieuwland

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Sinusoidal, breathing into the delta

Wet coiled oxbows, silt mosaics, fields, plots and gardens

Fertility for kumara, spinach, tomatoes, garlic and beans

The immaculate process of bee laden pollenating wind

Saturated air fresh with spring rains

Absorbing into fragile root tissues, the breathing soil

A flourish in tensile light, of sky that turns kingfisher blue

Exciting arcades of chloroplast platters

Vibrant expressions of bright red tomato and pomegranate love

Joyous oranges, carrots and persimmons

Beans and aubergines, their rich purple lust

Potato happiness,

Served with fresh mullet, broccoli and mustard

Olive oils, avocado flesh,

Scented with sage, coriander and basil

Breads, leavened, kneaded,

The daily ritual of yeasty aromas baked

Sliced, with honeys and jam, soft cheeses, nuts and dates

All life is food and all food is life, the taste web

The raw, uncooked, fermented, fried, grilled, roasted

Fresh, frozen, preserved, pickled, dried

Statements of culture, vitality and tastes,

The spiced, salty, sweet sauces

Our obsession, the whole grains we eat

The food forest of the island planet

Sacred summer barbeque in the shade

We are eating the world and all that lives in it

It is all our food, the food of humans

The jungles, the fruit, the nuts and berries

Its oceans, the plankton, what they eat, what eats them

The tuna and shellfish, pelagic schools of herrings

Lakes and rivers, their trout, salmon, eel, koura

The air, the chickens, their eggs, the ducks and insects

Rich black soils of mushrooms, tubers, fungi

It is all our food, the drinks, the juices, alcohols, and teas

The tastes, smells, what we need for the day

What the earth gives us, gives us,

The billions of us, to swallow

An American Appetite

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by Carl ‘Papa’ Palmer

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Eating here stateside is hard to define.

Much more than cheese wedgies, veggies and meat,

or drive-thru fast foods on most any street.

Choosing food from signs while waiting in line,

we dress to the nines with waiters and wine,

snack between