#sauce
In the stir
of the moment
we diluted
When things
settled
we separated
Apr 14, 2025
Apr 14, 2025 at 6:50 AM UTC
Holy hot sauce,
Hot sauce burning down leftovers and waste,
Adding spice to this flesh
Not going with anything,
Not going with anything else
Better,
Never better than hot sauce,
Hot sauce with well stuffed and fried or stewed
In Shells of porcelain contents,
Shaped and decorated, well plated,
Well plated with Silver and Gold plateaus
Of stew, salads and anything fried
Taking a rich shower of the loveliest spiced,
Holy hot sauce.
Mar 20, 2021
Mar 20, 2021 at 5:37 PM UTC
The secret sauce of life of the earth
just a glance turns the sun to brew.
The whole stars mirroring sea
in the night slides into a dew!
Aug 6, 2020
Aug 6, 2020 at 6:55 PM UTC
based on the essay in the notes below
which was forwarded to me by Liz Balise
<>
*all poems and their accompaniment sauces commence with onions,
that start by fouling the air, bringing forth only unrestricted tearings,
but then...
the slow cooking elicits the sugars hid within,
the unpleasant odor, refined into something
minted new sweet and savory.
so too, the poem must simmer, slow cooked,
harmonizing the caramelizing,
even if some ingredients
claim the first born birthright of the eldest first essential,
despite the collective harmonizing.
the ripened color of the blood red tomatoes,
the ruddy cheery sanguinity of
certain words in each poem,
are the coloration of its entirety -
the ones your never forgive for never letting you forget them!
what matters not but how, the daring to substitute the new how,
how you chef see it and color it with the crazy way how
you beckon us over one by one to the big *** for a tasting
accepting critiques and suggestions, a thousand pinches
of your salty sweet essences.
and the recipe is dog stained and pointy corner ear-edged,
cause you cannot exactly write it down, and you bend the corner
for every substitution and variation,
cause every poem
made to taste the how of us,
each one a subtle different.
everyone understands metaphor,
even the society of the reticent ones in the back row,
just say the “trapdoor of depression” and they’ll nod knowingly,
so say to them a poem is a metaphor for you,
and spaghetti sauce is how you see, recreate in words,
how you need to add an ingredient of yourself
to this one,
a word, a phrase, becomes you,
becoming you in it,
in you,
you in it are both poet and poem,
a simmering new and different*
————————————————————————-
A Well Written Essay— The Spaghetti Sauce Method
As a teacher and a learner, I have always wanted to see the "nuts and bolts" of everything. Yes, it slows the process down, but the learning is more complete, and a person becomes capable of making endless connections of understanding, branching to other creative possibilities. Writing like dancing, and all that is worth learning, deserves all of the pieces and steps of the process.
I remember telling my students every year that grammar could indeed be a dry bone, but necessary in the process of good communication. Told them that I would teach writing by the "spaghetti sauce method" (Visualize their perplexed faces here.). "A well-written essay should be like a really good sauce-- smooth, fine textured, with a complete harmony of meat, sweet, tomato, and seasonings-- not one overpowering the others, but all in marvelous union of great flavor and aroma."
I continued, giving the example of my mother's
(God rest 'er) Irish spaghetti sauce" as a contrast. "Mama would throw in onions, peppers (if she had ‘em), hamburger, salt and pepper, fry it all in corn oil, and mix with two cans of plain tomato sauce. This was all okay with me," I went on,“ till I experienced the epiphany of garlic, basil, oregano, pork neck bones and a cup of wine; in the kitchen of an Italian neighbor, who walked me through the process and ingredients of real Italian sauce that was simmered for hours."
I continued to nudge them with the comparison: "Excellent writing is more than talent and passion, otherwise a tirade of curses, knotted ideas, and copied paragraphs of someone else would always do.” "No," I went on, "It is clear thought, captured, slow-cooked in the labor of mind and understanding— and in good time, expressed, in a way that others can comprehend -- with great attention to the cardinal rule: It is not as much WHAT you say-- but HOW you say it."
Through the year I focused on one or two aspects of better writing at a time for each paper. It was an uphill battle, often teaching against the mediocrity of the expectations in the PA State Standards of Assessment. It would add ten hours to my work week to grade and comment on a set of a 115 papers.
Jan 28, 2018
Jan 28, 2018 at 3:52 PM UTC
_Grease
Wagon
Paper cups,
Hot chips and sauce;
Sticky fingers dip in for just one more..._
Nov 1, 2019
Nov 1, 2019 at 3:28 PM UTC
Oh, the jar exults high
holding what we find to be dear
Oh, the marinaras keen zest, umami, and as I close my eyes
I hum the hunger tune.
Oh, but without the curved ridge and open space
the sauce would never grace my face
The jar! The jar,
the vehicle of delicious
who was passed through many hands
and crafted with hot sand.
Oh, tomato, garlic, and onion so sweet
and delivered neat, for me to eat.
Jul 30, 2019
Jul 30, 2019 at 11:03 AM UTC
Our relationship, deeper than any pizza base.
Our love, saucier than the finest italian passata.
Our feelings stronger than the maturest of fine cheeses.
Our willingness to please the other stretches such as the most glorious of mozzarella.
To what do we base our feelings upon,
Be it the interchangable toppings or the structural integrity of the strongest crust.
Akin to snowflakes no two pizzas are ever alike. Each one differing to the last, be it the char marks on it's peak or the flame kissed bottom.
Our choice in toppings may differ so vastly, you with your ghastly pineapple and myself with my overly rich and greasy bbq meatfeast.
Alas does this mean anything at all? Nothing but a matter of opinion, toppings change to peoples liking, but our bases remain the same our sauce the binding glue to hold it all together.
Mar 2, 2019
Mar 2, 2019 at 11:25 AM UTC
the noodles are elegant, lovely and fair,
i see now there's a reason
why you're called angel hair.
buttery smooth, and golden light reflection
it's strikingly radiant
the epitome of perfection.
the sauce is as red as my cheeks
when one is deeply in love,
far higher than a mountain peak.
look, it flies in the saucepan
alluring is not a word to describe,
but truly, it's so hot, it needs a fan.
the meatballs are spheres of joy
what geometry could calculate its area?
though it ignores me, i tell it to not play coy.
how lovely the ringing sounds of sizzles,
light my ear with fireworks unheard,
oh, how my feelings are a shizzling!
oh spaghetti, my love, my joy, my life,
it's unnatural to see my tears fall on the plate.
you are my happiness, my leftover bowl of strife.
i mourn when there is none left
for breakfast in the morning,
but i dream of you when i go to bed.
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 10:31 AM UTC
Chocolate chips creamy cheese cake, chum,
Chilled with chunks of chopped cherries in ***
Try chilly chips with saucy chops,
Or chicken cheeseburgers with spicy chips.
It's chef's chic choice hmmm....
Jun 6, 2018
Jun 6, 2018 at 10:05 AM UTC
She paid the cost
Endured the loss
Bounced back and found her way.
Now she in her groove
Making all the moves
On a path that she paved.
Oooh everyone around her playing charades.
Oooh while she over here tryna get paid.
Everything about her is self-made.
See the jewels? Oh best believe she bought it.
See the car? She only drives in exotics.
Where she came from? Oooh she ain’t forgot it.
When we locked eyes, no surprise, these feelings yeah I caught it.
Oooh she’s the boss.
But that’s no shock.
Got a walk that match her talk.
That’s floss and gloss.
CEO of the life she lives.
She’s got the sauce.
Homies mad that she don’t show them the ***
Mmm that’s not her fault.
She say she loves me but no need me,
Oooh that’s my boss.
May 22, 2018
May 22, 2018 at 7:58 PM UTC
I sit here,
Nearly at the end of my wit's,
Don McLean is chattering on about how the quartet practiced in the park,
The sauce is 35 minutes from being complete,
A journey that started 5 hours and 25 minutes ago.
All because I wanted to try a recipe,
But I'd be lying if my taste buds didn't enjoy it.
Cooking is exhausting
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 2:04 AM UTC
everyone agrees that you're
tasteless and flavourless
when it comes to
choosing the ingredients
to make the dough for love.
similar to a slice of
cold, leftover pizza,
hated like pineapples
as the toppings,
slapped on like a can of
expired tomato sauce,
cut away like
unwanted crustings,
and being as cheap as
a low-quality mozzarella.
definitely
loved by me
but purely hated
by the entire world.
Dec 9, 2017
Dec 9, 2017 at 2:24 PM UTC
your tastebuds
won't divorce
the tangy zest
of Giuseppe's sauce
the fulsome tomato flavour
you'll always want to savour
Giuseppe's sauce
is
so
yum
yum
Giuseppe's makes
the
palate
hum
hum
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 10:51 PM UTC
I sit, in my prison of fears, dreams, hopes and consequences thinking,
I am thinking about my life, but most importantly, what I want and desire. Tonight my thought is of you, as I look back and ask why? Why do I care, why do I feel, and why did I give my true love and honour.
In better times, you were the symbol of fun, new hope, and excitement.
I laughed a bit more, taste the fruits just a bit better, and saw the colours a bit brighter as excitement ran through my veins. I remembers days conversing about everything and nothing, exploring each other's favorite music, dance, style, and humour.
I grown to trust as a friend and romance as a prospect as I seen bits and pieces in you that I have not seen in others. As comfort set, so did fear and anxiety of the next chapter. It hindered, broke, scared, and hurt us. We experience forces that successfully broke us out of envy and jealousy of our closeness. Half the times we were stronger, other times, weaker as other people painted green while we only saw mud brown.
I spent many upbeat nights , dancing in my mind the beauty of the friendship and the words once said, and many nights crying, for the pain and hurt that is inflicted.
I will always not understand everything, especially the small magic that occurred as sometimes I feel insignificant to the only person I feel who is the most significant.
For the first time, I held the hand that shaken, cleaned the tears of confusion and pain, and gave only from my soul and heart, because I just know it felt right. I watch every time unneeded, I become again void as once again I am imprisoned under negative energy and mirrors.
Always looking to cracked the bad mirror to prove the beauty and love within me, asking for a glare of notice, because as every day unfolds, I have a basic feeling of deep admiration and love solely on the history and fantasy combined we created. And I have no fear as the worst always have happened, leaving deeper in sorrow.
I realize I am a failure, not because I fail, but I found a reason to refuse to fail, as my stubborn heart persists and my mind fights. Despite the exposure of love and acceptance, for each positive influence I experience, I cannot fully appreciate as I wait for the perfect connection between what I admire and my self-reflection. When I promise to cross waters without swimming, taking hits without shields, and stopping time to fulfill my integrity, I meant it deeply as I have already executed my words.
Many times that I have drowned, shot by criticism from within and afar, broke past self budgeting, and surpass my expected limitations, I just know would do it all over again just to reflect on my mistakes to give a better story. It is my creed.
I may be a fool in many eyes, but finding a diamond with so many colourful flaws is very rare to me, and cannot be duplicated in effort or by chance. Seeing someone hold your hand as I wrapped in cold quietness is my pain, as I run out of ideas to bring forth the smile I have seen before, and the meaningful tears of love I once heard. If you were colour, you are that shade of violet. Very loud, misunderstood, never available in most settings, but yet the shade that always sang to me.
Crucify me for being an idiot for loving, as I stand by whom I chose as my twin flames of friendship. I miss you because I have too. Some days I am glad I met someone who taught me that I could love for real, and some days I regret demeaning myself. I am guilty by creed.
As i always say, you given me spontaneous energy , in which gave my life some flavour beyond salty-boring. This here, what I am saying now, is just another random of spice to add to the *** but in deep honesty, this is farther from the truth of randomization. I have written this starting from months ago, only in heart in mind, only to be transposed as words today. I plea insanity, I plea the fifth, but I plea for recognition as I am guilty of melting by your presence. I refuse to walk the lines of this magic as a failure.
I offer my heart, eyes, soul, wisdom, fruits and prospects, just to see the smiling thanks and admiration I saw before existence of my deeper prison. Let me drink a cup of java and dance the floor of reality one day, and I promise the music will be more than moderately dismal. Within many days, we could choose to flour that pasta, and dip it into the sauce I prepared slowly. Let's ad-lib some more words into a book, and see what the sunset really looks like. With all of me, Peace.
Thomas~
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 3:55 AM UTC
I’m
Paper-baggin’
It,
Paper,
Paper-baggin’
It,
“Oh lord!”
I’m paper-baggin’ it!
Alongside the rail come Neenah steel,
And foreboding, “Fox,” oh so tipsy,
Whispers, this meandering little missy.
I’m paper-baggin’ it!
And when Santa Fe’s now, near and
Her boyfriend’s whistle, prophecy’s clear,
So wills the way and away and away.
I’m
Paper-baggin’
It,
Paper,
Paper-baggin’
It,
“Oh lord!”
I’m paper-baggin’ it!
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 8:40 AM UTC
You're my snickerdoodle, pumpkin strudel,
You're the sauce upon my noodle,
You're prettier then a purple poodle,
You're the one I like to doodle,......on my doodle pad,...
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 10:22 AM UTC
Slipping into my apron,
Hungry in body and soul
Humming as a song played...
I grab my knife and chop-board
Unsure of what to cook
Strange inspirations possess me
Filling me with *****
My kitchen becomes a stage
In my hands- a plectrum and fretboard
Silver utensils- my live audience!*
As I play divine recipes
Strumming master acoustic chords
Chopping fresh, colorful vegetables.
I dash to the remote,
Punch "Repeat" and dash back on stage
Landing on E♭ minor,
Scaling impossible notes,
I slice with razor-sharp plectrum,
On onions and other root chords
My fret arrayed with colors,
Of spinach, lettuce, tomatoes
Carrots, potatoes, olives
Pepper, cabbage and cucumbers.
I hear a thunder of applause
As I ignite the cooker
Butter sizzling in the hot pan
A staccato of sharp notes,
*Ready to modulate innocent vegetables
Through spicy aromatic crescendos!*
I fight hard to suppress a sneeze,
No sneezing on-stage! Unprofessional!
Multitudes of seconds rush by and…
Voila!!!
I stand for a moment
Salivating, awed at my bravura!
Wishing I could hang it on my wall
Tis beautiful like art
But I can’t eat this cake and have it!
So I dig in…
Heaven and earth kiss for a moment
L U S C I O U S!!!
Luckily, it didn’t taste nauseating
Like my last attempt.
No time for ceremonies
I munch from pan to mouth
Pausing for what may pass for a prayer,
I relish every bite!
Not that I’m a foodie or something,
But nothing beats this combo-
Of good food and soul music.
And yes,
*Music is indeed food to the soul!*
I devour, in view- the next meal...
© Raphael Uzor
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC