After he was diagnosed with cancer, we built him a small cabin under a canopy of firs, breathed a little easier when we saw his truck come rumbling down the road. One year he was too sick to make the trip—his daughter with big hair and glittery nails came instead to gather his few belongings, leaving the wood stove and cook pots for his hunting friends.
After he died, his son came each fall, sometimes bringing a friend or two. With them came fresh-caught tuna, elk steaks, razor clams—small offerings of friendship and appreciation for the privilege of hunting on our land. In return we offered pears and apples, bags of plums and grapes, bouquets of chrysanthemums to take home to their families.
Once a hunter brought his young wife, a beautiful woman my age, a teacher like myself, who had suffered a stroke. She was paralyzed and mute, confined to a wheelchair, needing constant care. I was nervous to meet her, uncertain of what to say, embarrassed by my health and mobility. “She laughs at my jokes,” her husband said, “and talks with her eyes. At least say hello. We won’t stay long.”
With effort she offered her hand in greeting, followed the conversation with her eyes. Her husband gently smoothed her hair, touched her face, rubbed her shoulders and back, always held her hand. He doted on this lovely woman, included her in all topics, even teasing her on occasion. She would nod, eyes sparkling. I was humbled and inspired by her courage, her strength, her grace. They stayed the night in the cabin. A few months later, she died.
He returned to hunt for several more seasons, along with others, but not once since Herman’s first visit was a buck ever bagged, nor a turkey. Perhaps they came for the solitude of the woods and fields, the easy conversations around a bonfire, the laughter.
It’s now been years since hunters walked our land. Herman’s woodland ornament has long been buried in the duff under a pine, the bones scattered by animals, the feathers by wind. Sometimes we sit in his cabin, warmed by a fire and the memories of the stories, the gifts, her hand offered in friendship.
Season Lightly With Salt, Poems and Recipes from the Test Kitchens of the San Francisco Wild Writing Women is a joyful and sometimes bittersweet collection of poems and recipes that pays tribute to family, friends and community. Written by the San Francisco Wild Writing Women, poets Angie Minkin, Elise Kazanjian, Heather Saunders Estes, Kathryn Santana Goldman, and anthology editor Robin Michel, this delectable book serves up poems centered around food and family and includes recipes from each poet’s own kitchen.
Preparing and sharing meals with one another nurtures and sustains, comforts and consoles, and heightens our pleasures. We are a nation of immigrants who have brought to America dishes from all over the world. It is more important than ever that we sit at one another’s table and break bread together.
Every palate will find something to satisfy their tastes in these poems and recipes from the various cultures blending in America’s stewpot. You will even learn how to read fortunes in a cup of Armenian Coffee. Available from Raven & Wren Press and select bookstores.
Shirlee Jellum is a retired English teacher living in the Columbia River Gorge. When not writing, she travels, backpacks, gardens, and makes wine. Her recent work has been published in Gleam, Honeyguide, On the Run, and Flash Fiction.
Maria B. Olujic, Ph.D. is an anthropologist and writer who served as Croatia’s Deputy Minister of Science and Technology during the bloody dissolution of Yugoslavia. Her memoir-in-progress, Fields of Lavender, Rivers of Fire: A Memoir of War, Survival, and the Search for Peace, weaves her experiences of war and displacement, focusing on the roles of women during the conflict, both those in power and those who were victims. She lives in the Bay Area.