Volume 1.03 2 Octoboer 2010
A Tasty Variation on Literature, Photography, Food and Music
Artwork by Claire Suellentrop
Slice It Up
Letter from the Editor
“Inheriting the Dream” (Gregory J. Cahanin)
“Back to Normal” (Howie Good)
“Splat” (Janet Yung)
“Sweet Neglect” (Kenneth Pobo)
“Closet Dindi” (Kenneth Pobo)
Bulgogi: a Recipe (Joe Krauska)
About our Authors & Artists
Letter from the Editor Dear Readers, All economic and political woes aside, there is a serious deﬁcit in this country; a deficit of understanding. The intolerance seen in the past few weeks has been staggering and repulsive, and it goes without saying that most people would like to see this come to an end. Jazz poet Michael S. Harper once said the job of the poet is “to tell the truth no matter what,” a creed that should apply to all artists. The truth, as you will ﬁnd in this issue, is that the qualities of those who differ from our personal backgrounds are what makes communication, sharing and equality so valuable. What is lacking is the general appreciation for what we as individuals bring to the “we” as a society. I am not terribly interested in the timeline that got us here; what matters right now is ﬁnding the fastest and most permanent way to get away from where we’ve arrived. I do not believe that a single art-act can bring about widespread enlightenment to resolve these chasms of ignorance, but it can certainly foster the idea. Without really meaning to, this issue came together with strong contributions on the positive side of diverse interaction. Working on Cannoli Pie this month has provided me with a bit of solace, as I came across a body of work that is both artful and relevant to the struggle for tolerance. I cannot change opinions or undo damage that has been done. These things must right themselves. What I can do is promote and contribute to an artistic conversation with optimism and acceptance in hopes that we can help wean our society away from its addiction to fear and misunderstanding. As existential beings and as fruitful members of our society, we cannot let the abhorrent acts of others go unaddressed. If we allow the problem to persist, then we are the cause of the problem. As you read this issue, I urge you to ﬁnd places and people around you that could use either support or guidance. Our contributors this month have made helped light the truth that the differences among us should are points of celebration (especially if food is involved) rather than points of protest. Seek out and celebrate the diversity around you. I hope you will ﬁnd as much solace in those things as I have. In utmost sincerity, Stephen Krauska Managing Editor, Cannoli Pie Magazine Our hearts and thoughts go out to the family of Jessica A. Moore, a sophomore at Seton Hall University in South Orange, New Jersey, who was murdered in a shooting the weekend of September 25 2010.
Inheriting the Dream
white paint still clinging to the siding. Most of the other homes had long ago lost any hint of Short Fiction by Gregory J. Cahanin paint and instead stood sagging and gray in the afternoon sun. Two wide planks served as a walkway across the ditch to the gate. With Arthur grabbed his knapsack off the brown vinyl seat and moved down the a smooth practiced motion Arthur lifted the wire loop off of the gate, passed through the aisle of the bus as it slowed. None of opening and let the loop fall back into place. the white students on the bus looked The front porch of the house contained two up at Arthur or seemed to notice his trek to the front where he grabbed the old cypress rockers and a couple of chrome chrome pole and waited for the bus to and red vinyl kitchen chairs. Three empty cans of malt liquor stood watch along side stop. The door opened as the yellow bus jerked to a stop and Arthur swung of one of the rockers near a rusting cigarette stand ﬁlled with butts. down the steps and onto the edge of the pavement. The bus turned quickly Arthur climbed the steps and entered the house. He was an only child. His father lato the left and moved to the next corbored by day at the Louanna Cottonseed Mill ner of the subdivision. on Railroad Avenue near the city water plant. The Green Acres subdivision, its late Arthur’s mother did housework for several 50’s three bedroom homes with a single bath and carport was just across elderly white women in the Indian Hills subdivision just inside the city line. the city line. White working class “Hello Arthur how was your day?” asked his families ﬁlled the homes. Stretching mother from the overstuffed chair across eastward behind the subdivision was from the black and white TV. a gravel road bordered on the left by “Just ﬁne Mama, just ﬁne.” said Arthur. He a ﬁeld of new growth soybeans. The placed his school bag on the ﬂoor next to the ﬁeld had been used over the years to Sylvania television console. Above the televigrow cotton, sweet potatoes and run sion the wall was ﬁlled with framed photocattle, but now was ﬁlled with the promise of proﬁt for south Louisiana’s graphs of John F. Kennedy, Bobby Kennedy, farmers. On the right side of the grav- and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. In the center was a full color painting of Jesus with rays el road were small fenced yards and simple wood framed homes set off the emanating from his sacred heart. A brown ground on concrete piers. Behind each corduroy recliner, sagging davenport, and Formica coffee table completed the small livof them were several acres of scrub ing room. grass for cattle dotted here and there with a small garden. The small fenced “Anything new happening at the school yards held old cars, bicycles, chickens, today,” asked the heavyset woman as she slipped her feet into blue vinyl house slippers and dust. A deep ditch clogged with weeds ran along each side of the gravel and prepared to rise from the recliner. “Oh, you know how it always goes Mama, a road. regular Monday. With the rain this morning Arthur walked down a worn track in we stayed in the gym for PE and the white the road to the third house. It was boys played dodge ball. The coach let me sit neater than the others with chalking 3
up in the bleachers.” “Being one of the ﬁrst to integrate Opelousas High School wasn’t ever going to be easy son. Doctor King and Reverend Abernathy are embracing the Lord’s walk to Calvary every day to make things better for us all and you are doing your part.” “Yes indeed Mama,” he responded automatically. Arthur’s mother had a habit of attributing almost any success to Dr. King. She had been embracing the Lord and Dr. King more frequently in the last few weeks. Opelousas High School opened in a new building four years ago and this year for the ﬁrst time it had been integrated. One thousand students and only 14 were not white. Arthur was the only Negro senior in the school. The ﬁrst rainy day of the school year Coach Nelson had let the seniors play dodge ball against the juniors. The white boys on his team had left Arthur against the wall and let all of the other teams balls gang up on him. The coach had just gone into the ofﬁce at that point and missed what happened. Arthur never dressed out for dodge ball again. Aside from saying “present” in class Arthur was silent throughout the day. He would talk to the other integrating students brieﬂy between classes and if they sat together during lunch. Last Thursday Dr. King had gone to Memphis to march with city garbage workers who had been on strike for seven weeks. The sanitation workers wanted the AFL-CIO municipal employees union recognized as their bargaining agent. Workers were treated differently according to their skin color. Among the differences, white workers on rainy days were sent home and paid for their time while Negro workers were sent home empty handed. Something went terribly wrong during the march. All-Negro Hamilton High School was the site of disturbances that quickly exploded into rioting and looting along Beale Street.
More than 200 storefronts had windows broken. The owner of Quality Liquors on Hernandon hid with her daughter in a locked bathroom while their store was looted. In the end one person was killed, 62 were injured and over 200 were arrested. Thursday night had been marked by shooting, ﬁres, and vandalism across Memphis. Police cars were ﬁred upon and armed National Guardsmen had ridden on ﬁre trucks responding to the ﬁres. Everything that Dr. King stood for had been challenged in Memphis last week. The Southern Christian Leadership Conference was based upon non-violence and the Memphis garbage strike now spelled defeat for the leader. The following day Dr. King had brokered another march with the city administration before leaving town for Atlanta. On Friday Assistant Police Chief Henry Lux led 300 sanitation workers and sympathizers down the sidewalk. As they moved down the street more than 4,000 National Guardsmen in green military vehicles and jeeps kept things orderly as the marchers formed a long line down Main Street. Walter Cronkite on the evening news that night had shown large personnel carriers with 50 caliber machine guns on them rumbling down Beale Street. A reminder of their presence would remain afterwards as indentations of half-track treads in the black asphalt. Friday’s march was supervised by Reverend J. M. Lawson, one of the leaders of the garbage strike movement. Reverend Lawson had turned away marchers with liquor on their breath and stripped away sticks on signs so 4
Inheriting the Dream Cont’d
der in the narrow brick bell tower beside the nave to the landing at the top. There, an old bell with a rope leading downward held court. Short Fiction by Gregory J. Cahanin Legend was that the bell had been used on the Thistlewaite plantation to summon workers that marchers would be left without a from the ﬁelds, but no one had ever actually weapon should ﬁghting break out. conﬁrmed its origin. The church had been Marshal Law still reigned in Memphis formed in 1897 and the 7th District Baptist where Mayor Harry Loeb had conSchool had started on the same property. vinced the legislature and governor to Chicken wire in wood frames covered the pass a state law authorizing Marshal windows in each of the tower walls to keep Law in the face of rioting. President birds from nesting. Arthur’s nostrils ﬁlled Lyndon Johnson had spoken from with the ammonia smell of the pigeon deposWashington on national television its on the ledge outside of the screen. Arthur, explaining that order must be prewith several feet of wire coiled around his served while also offering federal aswaist, held the wire off to the right of the ladsistance. “Our system of government der. His father slowly ascended with a mouthand our security depend upon capable ful of nails and a hammer in his right hand. local law enforcement.” Johnson had Every ﬁve feet or so Arthur’s father would stated. ﬁrmly press a nail into the side of the ladder, Sunday the minister of Arthur’s give it a couple of taps, pull the wire against church had preached for nearly an the nail, and with a quick ﬁnal swing of the hour on oppression and how even hammer bend the nail over trapping the Moses, when he lead his people out wire. As he neared the top he handed Arthur of Egypt had failed to fully recognize a short antenna that was tucked into his belt that some of those among him had lost and came through the trapdoor. sight of God. Reverend Roosevelt had Terrance Winston unlatched and raised the cautioned against violence to try to chicken wire frame on the north face of the achieve the goals of equality. tower, securing it to a rusty wire dangling “Change your clothes son, you and from a rafter. He then used his hammer to your Daddy have work this evening.” brush away the pigeon nests, feathers, and said his mother as she made her way pigeon poop on the ledge. Arthur uncoiled to the kitchen. the wire from his waist and handed it to his After supper, Arthur and his parfather. With his pocket knife he stripped the ents had driven over to Reverend end of the wire and attached it with wing nuts Roosevelt’s house, leaving his mother to the antenna and handed it back to Arthur. to visit with the reverend’s wife. He Taking a bracket from his pocket Arthur’s had then gone with the reverend and father then nailed it into the mortar between his father to the Mt. Olive Missionthe bricks. The antenna then slipped down ary Baptist Church with a long coil of and wedged in the bracket. insulated wire. “OK reverend, the antenna’s hooked up Arthur, with the wire secured around here,” shouted Terrance Winston down the his waist had climbed the wooden lad- wooden hatch. He and Arthur then made 5
their way down the ladder. In the main hall of the church they followed the wire down the side aisle to the choir area at the front of the church. Reverend Roosevelt was securing the wires to the back of a large AM tube radio. “If this antenna don’t get it then we’ll have to ask Gabriel his self to hold it higher.” said the reverend. He turned on the AM radio and began to move up the dial. Static alternated between stations as they faded in and out. Suddenly, “89, WLS Chicagooooo” boomed through the church. “That’s 890, I have to go up to 1070,” said the reverend as he spun the dial higher, his head cocked like a radioman in an old war movie. A static squeal and a deep baritone voice boomed out of the box. The three men paused and waited for the commercial to end. “Seven-ten and 57 degrees here in Memphis at WDIA,” said the announcer. “Ain’t that something,” said the reverend. “On Wednesday night WDIA is going to broadcast Dr. King’s speech at Mason Temple Church and we’re going to be able to hear it live. I’m going to set the microphone here in front of the speaker so even Miss Violet can hear it with her hearing aid off.” The three of them laughed. Miss Violet often turned her hearing aid off during Reverend Roosevelt’s sermon and then forgot to switch it on again during he coffee hour. Everyone knew, including the reverend, but politely acted as if nothing were wrong in deference to Miss Violet’s age and kind nature. On Wednesday evening Arthur and his family went to regular services at Mt. Olive. The church was crowed with almost 250 people dressed just below Sunday best. Arthur wore a Madras plaid shirt his mother had given him for his birthday. She had bought it at Abdalla’s, the nicest department store in Opelousas. His mother made certain he dressed well for school and looked to what
some of the white boys of the houses she cleaned in Indian Hills wore. He normally changed out of his school clothes when he returned home. He was allowed to wear school clothes to church on Wednesday. Arthur nodded to several of his schoolmates as the Winston’s moved down the aisle to their regular pew near the front. Nine of the fourteen students integrating Opelousas High School went to Mt. Olive. The president of the St. Landry Parish NAACP also attended Mt. Olive and had pressed Arthur’s parents hard to get him to switch to OHS this year. Arthur had always been quiet and had been reluctant to switch from the comfort of J. S. Clark High School but acceded to his mother’s wish. When Dr. King had left last Friday for Atlanta he had promised to return to Memphis this week. His ﬂight to Memphis on Tuesday had been delayed earlier in the day by a bomb threat, but Dr. King had returned to show that peaceable change was the rule of law. The choir ﬁnished a hymn and Arthur saw one of the elders who had been kneeling near the AM radio nod to the reverend. “Brother Otis has given me the signal. Dr. King is about to be introduced at Mason Temple in Memphis, Tennessee. What a treat for us all to hear from such a great man in these trying times.” The reverend placed the big chrome microphone on the table in front of the AM radio. The introduction of Reverend Abernathy was just ﬁnishing. Reverend Abernathy’s voice boomed 6
Inheriting the Dream Cont’d Short Fiction by Gregory J. Cahanin
through the church as he introduced Dr. King and there was a pause as the church members imagined the two men embracing across the radio waves from Memphis. Dr. King’s voice ﬁlled the church as the thanked the crowd in the Mason Temple and said that Reverend Abernathy was the best friend in the world. “Something is happening in Memphis, something is happening in our world,” he began. Arthur sat beside his Mother with his father to her right near the aisle as he listened to the radio boom through their simple church. Arthur’s thoughts were ﬁrst of the work in the bell tower and the strength of the radio signal from hundreds of miles away. Gradually he was drawn to Dr. King’s words as the minister imagined traveling through ancient Egypt, to Mount Olympus, and onward to Abraham Lincoln signing the Emancipation Proclamation and then to today. Slowly the church began to ﬁll with amen’s from the Mt. Olive members and mixed with those coming over the airwaves from the Mason Temple. “The masses of people are rising up. And wherever they are assembled today… they want to be free,” announced Dr. King. Arthur’s mother let loose with a “Praise Jesus,” and he too joined the rest of his congregation as they traveled back across the airwaves and entered Mason Temple themselves, one small church working 7
with God to give its entire spirit to the force of the Lord Jesus empowered in Dr. King. One small church committed to the human rights revolution to moving away the barriers of injustice, and encircling with their arms held towards heaven the freedom of assembly, the freedom of speech, and the right to protest. Dr. King ﬁnished with, “I just want to do God’s will. And He’s allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I’ve looked over. And I’ve seen the Promised Land.” Arthur suddenly felt small and low and looked around. Everyone was standing around him their arms outstretched as Dr. King’s voice boomed, “Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.” Arthur found himself standing as well amidst the cries of praise as the applause from the speakers was mixed with those around him. The hair on his neck bristled. Brother Otis lowered the volume on the radio and the congregation suddenly found itself disconnected from the rainy Memphis night and began to slowly and self consciously sit down again. Reverend Roosevelt sat in his altar chair looking at the quieting congregation. He had seldom seen an altar call capture a congregation the way Dr. King’s speech from WDIA in Memphis had tonight. He remained seated and placed his hands together and set his chin upon them and quietly prayed. Finally, in almost a whisper he said, “God Bless Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and God bless each and every one of you. Thank you all for coming and sharing. Good night.” With that the reverend walked down the center aisle to the church door and began to quietly shake each member’s hand. Arthur looked around and the church seemed almost like a revival had just ﬁnished and each member was quietly basking in the glow of God’s grace. They were all ﬁling out to their cars to go to spread not Jesus’ message
of salvation, but with a feeling that they were the chosen ones and their time was now here. Many were wiping tears of joy and hugging and embracing each other. Their car was quiet on the way home. Terrance did not turn on the radio as was his habit. Thursday afternoon as the school bus slowed to let Arthur off, he moved down the aisle. It had been a long day with a couple of shoves in the hallway at school, but nothing of consequence. Arthur was small framed like his Daddy and not made for ﬁghting, so the bullying never went far. Dropping to the ground from the bus he shook the weight of the day from his thin shoulders and hurried down the gravel lane. Arthur turned the rusty tin doorknob and entered the house to ﬁnd his mother in her usual spot in the chair across from the TV. When she worked cleaning white peoples houses it wasn’t proper to sit, so by the end of the day she welcomed a chance to sit with her feet up before ﬁxing dinner for the three of them. “How was school today son,” she asked. “We watched the launch of Apollo 6 in English class this morning. It’s going to land tonight around ten o’clock. The next one is going to have Astronauts on it.” “My, my, with all the troubles we have on God’s green earth who can believe we are going to heaven itself. President Kennedy said we were going to put a man on the moon before 1970, so I guess if the Lord is willing we will all live to see it. Just imagine staring up at the moon and not being able to see the little spec of that astronaut.” “Maybe one day it will be one of us Mama.” “Good Lord, we will have overcome then won’t we Arthur. Dr. King and the good Lord will be the ones we thank.” “You can keep your school clothes on again tonight cause we are going to church again for
a special gathering to pray for all those in Memphis.” She rose from her chair and moved to the kitchen to begin getting supper ready, leaving behind Phil Donahue on the TV set. Arthur went to his room dropped his school bag on the bed and pulled out his Algebra book. He returned to the living room and slouched on the couch doing homework while the TV continued to ramble on. KLFY news came on at 5:30 just as his father arrived from the mill. He nodded at Arthur and went to change from his work clothes. The mill processed cottonseed into oil and after a day at the mill Arthur’s father’s clothes had a nutty smell from the machinery he worked in and around. Just before 6 o’clock the family sat down to dinner and in an unusual move the TV was left on in the living room so that they could hear the latest on Memphis. Walter Cronkite led off with a Memphis update. The curfew the night before had been effective with only a few arrests and no mass rioting. A reporter in Memphis outlined the relative calm in downtown Memphis as the camera panned the military vehicles and police patrolling downtown in pairs with riﬂes. CBS followed with the story of Apollo 6 and the relative calm in downtown Memphis as the camera panned the military vehicles and police patrolling downtown in pairs with riﬂes. CBS followed with the story of Apollo 6 and its orbiting of the earth. Suddenly, the story stopped and the camera focused upon a sullen Walter Cronkite. “We have just received word that the Reverend Martin Luther 8
Inheriting the Dream Cont’d
strong, but strained announced, “Dr. Martin Luther King, leader of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, expired in the emerShort Fiction by Gregory J. Cahanin gency room of St. Joseph Hospital in Memphis, Tennessee at 7 p.m. this evening from a King has been shot on the balcony of gunshot wound received while on the balcony the Lorraine Motel in Memphis.” The of the Lorraine Motel shortly after 6 p.m. this television went to a photo of Dr. King evening. Dr. King was 39 years old.” as a reporter on the telephone breath- Arthur’s mother wailed and prayed. Brother lessly outlined that the King party Otis had called and said everyone was still had been staying at the motel and he meeting at the church. The television began to was preparing to leave with Reverend supplement telephone reports from the hosAbernathy and several others in his pital in Memphis with outlines the reverend’s group for dinner when he was shot as life as the family began to silently put away he stepped out on the balcony. Police the remains of a dinner that no one cared to were reportedly chasing a suspect in ﬁnish. a white car and Dr. King had been As they entered the church tears ﬂowed down rushed by the ﬁre department to the Arthur’s face. He heard the loud boom, boom, St. Joseph Hospital where reporters boom of a mufﬂed base drum that was only and friends were awaiting word. his own pulse pounding in his ears for there Arthur’s mother let out a loud moan was no organ music or choir tonight. Reverwhen the announcement of King’s end Roosevelt stood at the entrance embracshooting came over the set. Dinner ing and praying for each member as they was forgotten as they moved to the entered. He hugged Arthur and for a moment living room and Terrance began to the weight upon him lifted just a bit and gave ﬂip between the three network stahim the strength to move to the family’s pew. tions. Arthur sat on the couch near his Arthur sat and prayed to Jesus while those mother as she prayed ﬁrst silently and around him cried out to the Lord for help and then out loud for the leader. Tears ran strength. One of His most noble soldiers had down her face. Arthur felt a weight perished in a battle in magnitude equal to upon him that seemed determined to David’s in the valley of Elah. Martin Luther pull him into the earth and cover him King Jr. had been slain by an assassin’s bullet with darkness. Tears ﬂowed. from a dark, cowardly place where only evil His father got up several times and could dwell. Arthur had felt hate and conanswered the phone, acknowledged tempt in the last year, but he had never felt that they had heard about the shooting the hand of absolute evil that now pulled at and returned to the recliner to watch his soul as he sat in the pew at Mount Olive. silently. The devil wasn’t allowed to enter God’s house, The network news stayed on the air how could this be happening. past their normal 6:30 end following The Winston’s arrived back home before the the story and recapping the Memphis 10 o’clock news and Arthur went straight to strike. Finally at just after 7:30 p.m. his room and laid upon his bed, the heaviness Cronkite, solemn, face drawn, voice in his heart drowning out the television in the 9
front room. He slept in his street clothes on the bed cover and awakened to his mother’s gentle hand rubbing his shoulder. “Time to get up son, I’ve ﬁxed you a good breakfast and set out some fresh clothes for you. You wear that nice white button down long sleeve and black pants with you good shoes today.” Arthur dressed and sat at the table and ate listlessly. The heaviness lingered in his chest and his mind seemed to jump from thought to thought. He numbly found himself standing in the living room staring at the front door. “Time to get to the bus stop son it will be there soon.” “Oh Momma, I don’t want to go to school today or maybe for ever. The dream is dead Momma, the dream is dead.” Arthur’s mother walked over and cupped his thin face in her hands and looked into his eyes. He realized for the ﬁrst time that she too had been crying through the night. Her dark eyes were surrounded by redness that can only come from the constant sorrow of the last twelve hours. She looked into his eyes. “Dr. King’s death has anointed us all, but you are one of the chosen. You walk into that school with your head high. Arthur, you are the dream.” Arthur looked into his mother’s eyes. They were ﬁlled with resolve he had never witnessed. He gently kissed her on the cheek. Arthur waited at the edge of the paved road, the bus rumbled up and he climbed the steps, each one seemingly taller than the last. As he moved down the aisle he knew each of the white riders was looking at him and the moistness that remained on his cheeks from the tears he had wiped away as the bus approached. He sat at the rear of the bus and looked straight forward, seeing and hearing no one. He didn’t sob or cry, but the tears continued to blur his vision and roll down
his cheeks. He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his white button down shirt. The bus stopped in front of OHS and Arthur waited as everyone exited ahead of him. He stepped off the bus and felt as if lead weights in his legs were attempting to slow him as the climbed the stairs to the school entrance. The four pairs of silver doors opened and closed as students moved into the building ignoring his presence or seeming to know what had happened. He grabbed the handle on a half-open door and entered the rotunda of the school. Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder and tensed. “Arthur,” a voice said quietly. Arthur’s hands clenched into a ﬁst, he recognized the voice as one of the boys from his bus. With shoulders squared he turned to face him. “Arthur,” he repeated. “I can tell you are really upset and well,” the other boy shufﬂed his feet uneasily, “I just, I just want you to know I am sorry for your loss.” said the boy quietly as he looked into Arthur’s reddened eyes for the ﬁrst time. Arthur’s hands relaxed as he looked at the other boy. He too was uncomfortable just standing there, the left hand that had grabbed his shoulder suspended between them, uncertain of where it should be. Arthur swallowed; his voice had retreated down his throat. He nodded his head, his lips forming a slight smile. “Thank you” he ﬁnally whispered.
Back to Normal Poetry by Howie Good
1 Have you ever seen the lining of a potato bugâ€™s wings? Like the opening of the season for executions. 2 All painting is piracy, a white forehead containing the memory of obscure objects in your parentsâ€™ medicine cabinet. 3 You start to make a list of all the things night knows, but stop at a better word for fucking.
Splat Flash ﬁction by Janet Yung
As they took their turn around the park, Gladys was bemoaning her peonies’ lack of blooms, foliage and ﬂowers sagging sadly towards the ground. Angie nodded in sympathy, her attention focused on the leggy couple casually walking away from the steaming deposit made by their dog in the middle of the sidewalk. “Excuse me,” Angie called after them, but they strolled on, oblivious to the hazard they‘d left behind. Without thinking, Angie scooped up the pile and hurled it towards their backs. Shocked when the missile hit its target with a splat, she yelled, “Run,” and Gladys followed laughing.
Sweet Neglect Poetry by Kenneth Pobo
I tell myself to weed despite an angry sun, mope, listen to Porter Wagoner sing about cheating winos. Nasty teachers, mosquitoes always want to make a point—on my skin. So I stay in for days. Until, I just go at it, bed to bed, tear weeds out like I’m tearing hair off the Earth’s head. I uncover a ﬂamingo ﬂower plant in a glass pot--in perfect health! Four red little boys pop up from thick shiny leaves. All winter it sulked on the sill. Now restored, they bask in neglect.
Closet Dindi Poetry by Kenneth Pobo
When she died, mom cleaned grandmaâ€™s closet out, plopped hangers on my arms I carried to the car. 5 minutes. Done. I might be over with quickly too, everything handed over and sold cheap, my closet holding onto one sneaker that, got away, me cowering under a lace.
Bulgolgi: Korean Barbecue Recipe by Joe Krauska
I had the opportunity to visit a good friend in South Korea a few Christmases ago, and was thrilled to walk and eat my way through Seoul. While not partial to pickled vegetables, kimchi is ubiquitous, and you can’t avoid eating it for long. It goes with everything from sweets to meats, even if it’s just at the table as a condiment. The most memorable moment of my experience with kimchi was during my last meal with my friend, when it was scooped on top of my plate. This dish was cooked by my friend’s mother, a woman of small stature who would argue with the grocery store about lowering the price of an apple because it was scuffed. She took a pile of thinly sliced beef and turned it into a juicy plate of heaven. Bulgolgi, better known as Korean Barbeque in this country, is considered a treat even in South Korea. Typically served raw in restaurants with a cast iron grill at the table for cooking, she prepared it in an electric skillet in her small apartment kitchen, ﬁlling the place with scents of garlic and meat. Bulgolgi combines many of my favorite ingredients; meat, garlic, soy sauce and vinegar. It is soaked until it turns an ugly sort of grey, and the ﬂavors come alive when the meat is quickly stir-fried. While there probably isn’t a wrong way to eat it, bulgolgi is delicious over rice and served alongside some steamed vegetables.
I never could get the recipe out of my hostess, but I think I managed to get very close to that wonderful meal. Feel free to scoop a big spoonful of kimchi or sprinkle chopped green onions on top. Bulgolgi Serves 6-8 2 lbs thinly sliced beef* 1/2c Soy Sauce 1/4c sweet rice wine (Mirin) 1/4c rice vinegar 4 cloves of garlic, ﬁnely chopped 1/2tsp ground black pepper Olive oil, for cooking 1 onion, thinly sliced 2T water 1 T cornstarch
Wisk together the soy sauce, mirin, vinegar, garlic and pepper. Put the sliced meat in a marinating device of your choice, I prefer a ziptop bag, but a bowl would work as well. Pour the marinade over the meat, and mix it together so everything is evenly distributed. Allow to marinate in the refrigerator for at least 30 minutes, making sure to mix up the marinade at least once. Strain the meat over a bowl, saving the marinade. Combine the cornstarch and water and set aside. Heat a nonstick skillet over medium high with 1 tablespoon of oil and cook the onions until slightly brown and tender, set aside. Unless you have a 20 inch skillet, you’ll need to cook the meat in batches, frying just long enough to brown some of the meat around the edges, add cooked meat to the cooked onions. Add enough of the reserved marinade to have about 1 ½ cups of liquid, bring to a simmer. Mix in the cornstarch slurry and bring to a simmer. Add the meat and onions back to the pan and cook until everything is hot and the sauce has thickened. Serve over rice with a steamed or stir fried vegetable
Photos by Meghan Krauska
grocery store has sliced beef for cheesesteak style sandwiches, which worked wonderfully; I just needed to slice the pieces in half since they were so large.
*Flat iron or ﬂank steak can be a cheap option for this, just make sure you slice it against the grain and at an angle. Any cut of meat that doesn’t require long roasting will work. My
Whodunit About our Authors & Artists
Gregory J. Cahanin has a B.S. from Oklahoma State University and an M.P.A. from Golden Gate University. He has written and published multiple technical articles in the ﬁeld of ﬁre protection and has worked in ﬁre protection engineering for 33 years. Greg is an avid sailor which accounts for his living in St. Petersburg, Florida for the past 17 years. Howie Good is the author of a fulllength poetry collection, Lovesick, and 21 print and digital poetry chapbooks, including most recently, Hello, Darkness, available from Deadly Chaps. Janet Yung lives and writes in St. Louis. Her short ﬁction has appeared most recently in The Shine, Bring the Ink, The Camel Saloon, sillymess and Fast Forward. Kenneth Pobo won the Main Street Rag chapbook contest in 2009. They published his manuscript, Trina and the Sky, in December. His work appears in Nimrod, Indiana Review, Stickman Review, Orbis and elsewhere. Joe Krauska is a working husband and father of one. His hobbies include cooking up storms, burping his daughter, quoting Futurama and laughing at tea parties.
Claire Suellentrop is one of Cannoli Pie’s Co-Editors and works as a radio host for 89.5fm WSOU. She spends most of her time listening to music very loudly, reviewing said loud music and critiquing people’s grammar. We would be lost without her. Stephen Krauska is Cannoli Pie’s other Co-Editor. He is a construction worker, artist, writer and advocate of all things interesting, organic, whole, caffeinated, American, liberal and equal. Cover art provided by Claire Suellentrop. © 2010 All content is copyright Cannoli Pie Magazine or the respective owners. Cannoli Pie retains ﬁrst electronic serial rights to all work.
2 Oct 2010, Volume 1.03 http://cannolipie.com