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I. The raccoonwas early,before the crowded treesheld only warblersand the nattering of squirrelspummeled the lake in glancingdives, giving the grebes what for. Thenthere were still tanagers, voicingtheir globed remote golds when slywinds smoothed back the beech leavesand the squirrels were less feckless,cobbing their cones of pine in silentcovertness, near stumpsContinue Reading

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The great silverbackpresses his haunches to the glass,unfazed, chewing,the amazed faces of childrena natural part of his terrain. The children line the belledviewing spacelike a chattering fringeof tropical primate.They are easily reverent,nudging, elbowingonly to alerttheir fellows toa fascinating monkclimbing the realcrenelated trunksor combing real mitesfrom a crony’scoarse coat. All adultsContinue Reading

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Rachel Turney is an educator and teacher trainer. Her photography appears (or is in press) in By the Beach, San Antonio Review, Writers Resist, The Salt, Noom, San Antonio Review, Umbrella Factory Magazine, and Ink in Thirds Magazine.Blog: turneytalks.wordpress.com Instagram: @turneytalksContinue Reading

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It had a mind of its own. I served it to people and it killed them. Let me explain. Long ago, when I was a boy, my father made a special soup to serve people. It was an instant success. He called it “the magical soup” and would never shareContinue Reading

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I need recipes for exotic dishes –things they never dreamed of inmy ancestors’ hometown of Fly, Ohio. What about Lost Sister Soup –some strange mixture of bone broth,spring greens, mushroomsforaged in faraway hills,and salt pure as baby’s blood? I want a meat pie, its fillingthe color of Phoenix feathers,crust theContinue Reading

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A toasted English muffin with egg saladwith the crunch of organic celery.Radio— songs from the sixties, balladswith lyrics I learned better than anymemorized theorem for Regents examsin high school. I sing along between bites.Lunch is a rack of ribs from a lamb,artichoke stuffed with seasoned breadcrumbs tightbetween the prickly leaves.Continue Reading

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Coming home from playing in the snow,handmade mittens soggy, smellinglike sheep, toes frozen from snowthat slipped inside too loose boots,steamed up windows signaled seriouscooking afoot. And the aroma, vegetalyet grounded in earthy beefiness,my Grandma’s goulash, quite the dish. Onions, carrots, potatoes, tomatoesand braised stew meat, a cheapcut that softened, meltedContinue Reading

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For Marlene, soup was a broth, cataract cloudy, noodles skimming the surface like a net. It was the type she poured from packets bought at Star Market and mixed with dehydrated chicken bits and imitation carrot. Historic mushrooms wrinkled from their time out of ground set against gluey celery. Granular,Continue Reading

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Try to turn up the warmth:the hot cup of tea, the adoring puppy,the morning sun through your writing studio window,the Rumi poems, your healing sauna,your crispy chocolate chip cookies,a recipe from your grandma,and the matzo ball soup fromyour long-gone aunt,the bag of potato chips left unopened,the pink bathrobe you gotContinue Reading

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swirls of brown sugar, lumpy soup,golden pools of butter. no, you say, no!not this! the fireside, the cold walk to school.have you got everything? just gimme a granola bar. the warm, sweet glue.spooning it up. raisins.sticky spoon, residue of gumin the blue bowl. look, not even the cat will eatContinue Reading