I loved today’s Writer’s Almanac poem, French Toast by Anya Krugovoy Silver
Pain perdu: lost bread. Thick slices sunk in milk,
fringed with crisp lace of browned egg and scattered sugar.
Like spongiest challah, dipped in foaming cream
and frothy egg, richness drenching every yeasted
crevice and bubble, that’s how sodden with luck
I felt when we fell in love. Now, at forty,
I remember that “lost bread” means bread that’s gone
stale, leftover heels and crusts, too dry for simple
jam and butter. Still, week-old bread makes the best
French toast, soaks up milk as greedily as I turn
toward you under goose down after ten years
of marriage, craving, still, that sweet white immersion.
“French Toast” by Anya Krugovoy Silver, from The Ninety-Third Name of God. © Louisiana State University Press, 2011.
I then started wondering (it was 5 am and I couldn’t sleep), so I browsed Poetry Foundation for more poems on food and drink and fell in love with this one, Green Tea by Dale Ritterbusch.
There is this tea
I have sometimes,
Pan Long Ying Hao,
so tightly curled
it looks like tiny roots
gnarled, a greenish-gray.
When it steeps, it opens
the way you woke this morning,
stretching, your hands behind
your head, back arched,
toes pointing, a smile steeped
in ceremony, a celebration,
the reaching of your arms.
Source: Far From the Temple of Heaven (Black Moss Press, 2006)
(ok it’s not for green tea but it’s a gorgeous Peranakan-style tea set that my mom brought for me from Singapore).