On:

Roger Camp is the author of three photography books including the award winning Butterflies in Flight, Thames & Hudson, 2002. His documentary photography has been awarded the prestigious Leica Medal of Excellence. His work has appeared in numerous journals including The New England Review, North American Review and the NewContinue Reading

On:

So much more than chicken and vegetables,your kitchen, your chopping,watching, stirring.What about your life experience?It all goes in the pot you bring meto heal my illness and cheer my spirits. You bring me love-made soup with alllife’s ingredients, covering all bases.And body and soul respond!It’s all in the intention.The recipeContinue Reading

On:

I pick up the purple turnip and slice off the scraggly-rooted bottom so it is stable when I cut it in half. I haven’t bought a rutabaga since the first heatwave in June. But the autumn chill compels me to buy this hybrid cabbage-turnip that I use only for soup.Continue Reading

On:

I sat at the kitchen counterof my dad’s gasstationwhile he cookedlima bean and ham soup.I hated it. What makes a poor childso arrogant she could hateher own dad’s soupthen sit and eat as ifit were chocolatebecause he made it for her. Lynette G. Esposito, MA Rutgers, has been published inContinue Reading

On:

Unborn hole empties churchrailroad ties in a forestcrawdads tadpoles nymphs sold outwho dreamed up Jupiter’s moonscapes Kelp and kale prom dressesthe hunter who bags his palno mention of French parfumstenches of ghetto gutters F-only alphabet soup de jourminesweeper memories of fiscal statisticsbut last place in Ulsyssesfound living moodquick-change artist bornContinue Reading

On:

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

On:

Boiled in the small potuntil they disintegrated. Nowa bubbling whirlpool of purple, tiny strings.Pink roses rise to the surface. A dish for a baby girl shower?I dip—sweet, tart.A ladle in Japanspooning it over brown garlicky meat? Such viscous roses! I dip out the pitswith a slotted spoon.The roses break up,Continue Reading

On:

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

On:

Now that I’m rich, I buy broccoli rabe by the bunch,no matter what the price. Same for escarole, Swisschard, organic spinach, avocadoes, artichokes. My grandmother pored through the binof discarded vegetables, haggled to get themfree, picked off decomposing leaves, and cooked.Would she celebrate that I still prepare the foods ofContinue Reading

On:

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