by Sage Cigarettes Staff
September’s staff feature is another twist on “A portrait of the artist as…” Each editor interprets the prompt differently. They write about food as a connection to their past & future, food as a connection to place, & food as a connection to habit, to the shape & flow of their daily life.
Stef Nunez | A portrait of the artist as her food
When I moved to Miami and I was in a major
Hispanic hub it immediately became important
to me to tap back into my culture. To cook like
my bisabuela was whispering the salted secrets
of her life on earth in my ear.
I never cooked for my past, not like this.
Dominican roots worked hard to keep the morro
out of the Arroz con gandules. I couldn’t cook
like his mother without smothering the little
flame of my culture. We’re so similar and yet
not the same and they never let me forget.
Now I cook for myself and my present has
enjoyed every bite. There’s no comparison.
But I smile extra bright knowing my rice tastes
like his grandma’s.
Jay Rafferty | A portrait of an artist as his food
For Uluru bar & grill
You come here for the view.
Initially anyway. This red lump of Aussie
rock on a cold, gray Irish high street;
this leathered room, chocolate wood
abundant, conspiratorial booths stretching
down one long wall, Edison bulbs hanging
like canaries from above and the kitchen
glowing like a foundry. The big window
bares the building’s soul, a soul with a view
of the cathedral’s snout, perched uphill,
a stone’s throw away, pointing out and over
the restaurant’s forehead. You’d come here
for the view you think. But the food—
you stay for the char grilled, the marinated,
the sauce drenched, roasted, intoxicating
food. You stay for the paving slab of brie
between brioche lips and beef burger.
You stay for the bacon crisp sprouting from the cheese.
You stay for the house red, brimstone in a glass.
You stay for the forty-two carat gold onion rings.
You stay for the peppersauce flowing over the porcelain.
You stay for what many try and fail to produce
in buildings all over Ireland, all over Europe,
anywhere there’s people, something only made
in the countryside. A meal with heart
and the next time you come here?
You come here for the food,
view be damned.
LE Francis | A portrait of an artist after forgetting to eat all day
Would I be a cup of black coffee, a sour cocktail poured with shaky hands. Would I give myself some little boost of courage or eloquence, I would. If I could survive on a liquid diet alone, I would.
Ever aching, ever uneasy, ever unable to decide what the hell won’t make me sick. I often opt for a slice of cheese or a handful of salad mix on my way through the kitchen. But on a good day I’ll throw a few things on a plate & act as if.
& it’s fitting, perhaps, to gather things & make a landscape of it, that there’s some rushed design to the laying out of things. As within so without, as above so below. I’ll make a fool of myself for a silly metaphor & fall asleep in my chair alone, reading a book.
