Falafel

by Neil E. Das

 

Like a hundred other things, I came late

To falafel, like modern Hebrews did

In that great breathing in to forge a state,

Fast taking them up, as if in a bid

For credibility, hoping chick peas

And spice and bread might feed a dream, a wish

To be at home, at peace, within the East,

Make memories of borscht, geflite fish.

So they learned from brother Mizrahim,

More distantly from Arab brother foes,

The tricks to soak and mash and fry, to thin

With lemons tahini sauce. Oh, if woes

Could be forgotten over meals, I know

The wonder of falafel might make it so.

________________

 

I have not had to soak and mash, a mix

Makes short work of tasks that once took a day.

I wonder whether I will ever fix

My hours to learn from process, to be paid

With well-won satisfaction and with taste

Of long ages. But even now as I

Lift up my knife to dice with worried haste

I taste a piece of cucumber and sigh.

Feeling its coolness on my tongue, I dream

Of coolness only half-remembered now,

In evening, in a Garden, near a stream.

I wake, and read my box and wonder how

A food that's kosher, vegan, and halal

Could do anything but unite us all.

_________________

 

It is really not all that hard to see

As I strain grease from well-browned batter

Why it is that these bring delight and glee.

It's grease! It's batter! You see those matter

In culture after culture. Think funnel cake.

Think Najavo fry bread and pakoras.

They all take work, but aren't that hard to make

They're market treats that take on even more

Wonder when made at home and children press,

Impatient around their mothers, like pups

Outside Old South kitchens. I clean my mess

And think of harder things, of shattered cups

And shattered lives and dreams. It's hard to keep

My thoughts on falafel while Beirut weeps.

Done