Strange Comforts by Meredith Davies Hadaway

Strange Comforts

by Meredith Davies Hadaway

Because tom kah gai is just another

kind of chicken soup--a healer--lemongrass

and galangal scent the kitchen's steamy air

with layers that are exotic yet familiar.

When I was sick my mother read out loud

to me. I still recall Rebecca, how the rise and

fall of her inflection blended plot

and fever till I fell asleep.

Now my mother's eyes see only wavy

lines and shadows. She cannot read at all

but her voice still rises sweet and

sharp--too sharp, I notice as she

tries to gauge how well I've warmed the soup.

I know she doesn't really like Thai food--

just wants the distraction from the grayness

of her day. I place a bowl beside her, swirl

cilantro in among the chicken bits. A squeeze

of lime, a ring of Siam pepper. With each

ingredient, a hint, a hurt, a possibility,

and then--sometimes--a consolation.

This poem was published in the Winter, 2011 issue of The MacGuffin. They don't have content like this poem on their site, but here is a link--you can buy current and past issues here. This poet's website is here. (Yes, I have old issues of lit journals from before things went online, as well as more recent print issues.)

If you have read more than a handful of the poems and my commentary here, you know I am a big fan of food poems. And as someone experienced in caring for aging parents, this poem also rang very true to me. As far as soup? Well, I just ate two bowls of homemade vichyssoise. I get upset when I am out to eat, try to order lentil soup (or whatever) and get told "we don't have serve in the summer." And I can tell you some of the best places in both Oregon and New York for soups of all kinds (but mostly creamy tomato).

I also believe that once we get to a certain age, and especially if we are involved in the care of elderly parents, we cannot help but think back to our childhoods and think ahead to how we will be once we are closer to the end of our lives. This poem gets into this two-step, and does so all around tim kha gai soup.

The first stanza grounds us in place and hints at circumstance. I always appreciate this in a poem. I usually want something to immediately hang onto.

The second stanza provides not only more information, but also a look back. Those of us who had good familial relationships get this stanza--a caregiver caring for a sick child. In this case, it is reading the novel Rebecca. What the speaker most remembers is her mother's voice, and falling asleep to that voice.

Stanza three brings us back to the present. The speaker's mother cannot read anymore but her voice is still inflected. The last line in this stanza offers some tension .

And it is, in this case, tension about the soup's temperature. This could be a person worried about burning her mouth. Or it could be a signal to us that this relationship, while loving, also had difficulties. Perhaps an overly critical mother?

That tension disappears quickly. In the fifth stanza, we are told that the mother "just wants distraction from the grayness of her day." As our abilities to do the things we used to do, especially the things we loved doing, like reading, diminish, our worlds get smaller and our days become monotonous. Something a bit "exotic" for lunch is an even bigger treat than it would have been 20 or 30 years before.

In the last stanza, the speaker finishes preparing the soup: cilantro, lime, and pepper. These are, of course, common ingredients in Thai food. They are also divisive (cilantro), acidic (lime), and spicy hot (pepper). With the connotations, these words/foods bring to mind, we are led to the last two lines. The speaker tells us that each ingredient brings with it "a hint, a hurt, a possibility, and then--sometimes--a consolation."

While "hint" can be talking about relationships and food, the last three items on this list are really about this mother and daughter. There is a lot of pain in this this poem, but there is also consolation; the speaker is able to pay back the mother reading to her by cooking for her now. The roles have changed, and while this is painful (and a billion other emotions all at once), we can get some consolation from it.

I like the quietness of this poem, how it makes points throughout without more than images and descriptions that must be taken together. There's also some great sounds; my favorites are "soup, scent, steamy," "swirl cilantro," and "a hint, a hurt."

The MacGuffin is still around, still publishing great literature. Be sure to check out their website!