In retrospect, perhaps it wasn’t the wisest of things to do, but I spent the weekend cooking and baking. To be more precise, I received a tutorial from a master chef, my stepmother, in the art of creating some of my favorite Hungarian dishes, her specialty. We made veal paprikash with spaetzle, roast duck with red cabbage, Gerbaud Torte and walnut beigli -  an assortment of dishes with sufficient butter and cholesterol to keep a team of cardiologist busy for some time to come. And what’s the point of making all these wonderful creations if you don’t sample the product? Good food, accompanied by fine wine, shared with friends and family – what better way do we have to spend our time?  This short preamble seems an appropriate introduction to the following poem.

Belly

I finally notice it at a dinner party,

the  way it stretches my shirt,

its urgency from the cake I’ve eaten,

its nerdy gurgles all the way home.

My wife has noticed it too.

She eyes it from her side of the bed.

My belly is new topography for us. She says,

You really should do something about that.

I take it by the car to the doctor’s office,

sit among other people with wrong-sized parts;

there is a swollen hand in the lap next to me,

a puffy face staring at me over the magazines.

When it’s my turn, the doctor examines my roundness

as though an explorer determined to map me;

there may be an alternative route to the Indies

laid out somewhere on these curving new lines.

Eventually, the doctor relaxes on the rolling stool,

assures me that everything will be all right in time.

It seems that I have merely eaten too much.

If I just eat less, the doctor assures me, the gut will shrink.

I ponder this on the drive home, my hand on my belly.

It sits in my lap like an old cat, thinking about its next meal.

Have I really eaten too much, belly? I ask it. Could it be?

There is only the sound of the car and the world around the car.

At the dinner table, my wife and I discuss the situation.

She agrees with the doctor. I nod, but I’m not so sure.

I eat my normal amount of dinner though we talk about changes,

about reduced portion size and exercise and a long, long life.

Then I wash the dishes contemplatively with my belly against the sink.

The air, in the kitchen and out the open window, is a fog of spices;

everywhere is the rising scent of this city and beyond.

I can’t help myself. I’m still hungry for more.

David H. Ebenbach

Unless you’ve been living in a cave atop an isolated mountain, you can’t have escaped the barrage of commercials, news stories and print ads for the upcoming Valentine’s Day. Like most holidays that have evolved into a mass orgy of marketing, this day has been designated as a good time to push the economy out of its current slump. For those involved in romantic relationships, there is the added pressure of coming up with a present that demonstrates in a satisfactory manner to the object of their affection that they are loved to a sufficient degree worthy of them. Lest anyone be disappointed, florists, restaurants, and candy makers jack up the price of Valentine’s Day specials to at least three times their usual rates so we can all visibly see how much we’re loved.

Reported on NPR radio, the most unusual Valentine’s Day story this year comes out of Japan, where a particular company has instituted a policy whereby employees who have been jilted by their love are entitled to a bereavement leave. For those 25 years of age and under, this is one day. For those 26 to 40 -  2 days, and those over 40 – three paid days off. I suppose they think that those who are youngest will not be suffering long, as they will find another mate soon, whereas those who are oldest face the bleakest prospects, and deserve the most pity.  The story didn’t go into detail as to how long the relationship had to exist before one was eligible for this benefit, nor did it say what happened if everyone in the company felt the person was much better off without their love interest.

This had been a uniquely American celebration for a number of years (I had never heard of it until I moved to the States) but thanks to the globalization of the economy, my son now reassures me that it has caught on in France, and if Hallmark has it’s way, will soon be embraced throughout the world. Don’t misunderstand me. I believe in love, in showing it visibly to my beloved, not just for one day, but throughout the year. I only have a problem with the way Madison Avenue manipulates people into believing that caring and gift giving are totally synonymous, and that the amount spent on the gift is a direct reflection of how much you care. And in case you’re wondering -  yes, I’m not totally immune to this kind of manipulation even as I’m cognizant of its existence. Happy Valentine’s Day to you all!

A MIDWINTER LETTER

It has been snowing all morning,
light flakes, none of them ready to rest.
They dance against the gray-green cedars
beyond the window, each snowflake
easy to pick out and follow,
enjoying itself, lifting and gliding,
playing for time against the inevitable.

On the windowsill, a photograph
of my mother at eighty, strong and confident,
blue dress, a simple string of pearls.
With each year she looked more like her father who lived to be nearly one hundred.
Both of them smile at me out of her face
and I can feel others standing behind them.
I lift on their breath and sail on.

                                                - Ted Kooser