Thursday, August 13, 2009

Free Beer, Free Food, Great Music

Join us for a special concert, one night only!

August 15, 2009 • 8pm

Tickets at the Door • Pay What you Want • KIDS any age FREE

FREE FOOD and BYOB or enjoy FREE BEER on us! Sponsored by PBR!

Morgan Foster, and father, Joe Foster, join us to share a night of new songs, old standards, and great stories.

Lead singer of the popular Chicago based band Common Shiner, Morgan Foster is no stranger to the spot light having played in some of the Windy City’s most celebrated venues. Foster’s songwriting, which has been described as “heartfelt…epic but humble, and full of stories that draw you in and make you listen up.” with lyrics that have a “pop sensibility, that people can really latch on tom,” is beautiful and sure to be a highlight.

Dad, Joe, is no slouch either, originally hailing from the east coast and now a folk charmer throughout southwest Michigan, Joe plays some of the best old timey folk tunes you’ve ever heard. Joe is also a fantastic storyteller weaving in a fascinating and hilarious anecdotes between each song.

In this rare joint show both will bring their own unique style and presence to the stage as they offer up an evening unforgettable stories and tunes.

Monday, August 03, 2009

Bacon Poem

This is a new poem that I wrote for Bacon Camp, an event that happened at Wild Goose Creative this past weekend. It was a celebration of all things bacon, including over 15 different food entries, craft and art pieces, and many, many pounds of bacon.

As part of the event I was asked if I would write some bacon slam poetry, which was ridiculous and fun. In a rarity of photographic fortuitousness you can actually see a picture of me performing this very poem live here. I love Emma, who wandered in during the middle. There is no doubt she upstaged me with her unbearable cuteness, a fact which I am perfectly okay with :)

Bacon Days

The pop of the grease nearly making me blind
worth the barrage of hot spit
just to sit and hear it sizzle
memories turning in the back of my mind.

Saturday morning cartoons
and dad’s famous eggs
which in life I was later to learn was
simply achieved by the addition of
Velveeta cheese and a dash of milk
yellow smooth like silk
as he whipped the yolks to a froth
and scrambled his way to family legend.
Easy trick, but he never let on,
content for our humble adoration
as we praised his culinary creation.

Truth be told though we were just being nice,
lauding the scrambled centerpiece
but all the while eggs, an after thought
our hickory smoked brains waiting for the slam and sizzle
on the griddle for the thick cut slices to reign down
and generously fill our bellies with
sweet and salty sustenance.

It was and is still true that there is
It’s a statistical, empirical fact.
It’s salt, it’s fat, it’s smoke, it’s crunch, it’s chew,
and you
you can always eat one more half morsel,
savor one more partial slice poached from a friend’s platter
or rejoice over one more unearthed crumble
hiding like pink gold glistening like
Yukon treasure from under the toast or hashbrowns
boring bedrock concealing a coveted gem
ready to be mined.

Just briefly, I’d like to pause this poem
for a quick public serve announcement
And it is this:
If you out for breakfast and it comes times for a sausage vs. bacon decision,
Always get the bacon. There are no exceptions to this rule.
To take it a step further if they should
give you the choice to mix and match
do not be fooled.
Always get ALL bacon.
In the moment there might be some deluded part of you that thinks
“Hey, what’s the harm in mixing it up a little?
A little bit of this, little bit of that, little sausage, little bacon.”
You will always be disappointed.
And you will treat the sausage differently,
covering it syrup, pushing it around your plate,
silently wishing that you’d just done
what you knew in your heart was right.
And that’s just not fair to sausage.
Sausage has it tough enough as it is
simply by virtue of it
without you and your false hope.
This announcement was brought it to you by
you guessed it
Back to the poem.

l feel it now like nostalgic smoky potpourri
(or maybe pork-pourri?)
hand turning over handle
cast iron sizzle pop blanketing my house
with the fine aroma of
summer vacation
of snow day,
of honeymoon
of those secret mornings where
there is enough time
to forgo granola
pass on the poptart
take a sabbatical from cereal
and snuggle deep under the covers
for 10 more minutes
before you can’t take it
and you need to go find
and embrace
whoever is making your brain
explode with goodwill, joy and
holy culinary reverence
towards breakfast,
towards your fellowman
and towards the world.