Gregory Emilio: Kitchen Apocrypha

Recently, I had the opportunity to give my first Zoom reading. It was an interesting experience. On the one hand, it was great to be able to look directly at the work I was reading, yet still appear to be looking at the audience. Also, the real-time discussion in the chat was downright rollicking, and something that really wouldn’t be feasible in a regular reading. On the other hand, even with the feedback, the event lacked that interpersonal element (and obviously, no book signings).

One of my fellow readers (and Able Muse author) was Gregory Emilio, whose new book, Kitchen Apocrypha, manages to combine two of my deepest passions: poetry and cooking. You might think that writing a book in which every poem pertains to cooking or eating would be limiting. In fact, food is such a fundamental aspect of our lives (and always has been), that it lends itself to commentary on a whole host of subjects: sex, love, art, war, language, religion, sickness, death, and more.

Viewing the world through the lens of food delivers some remarkable imagery and turns of phrase. Consider: “the moon proofing like a loaf of bread,” “the night melting like sautéed onions,” “the moon drifting over the earth like a chipped dinner plate.” And Emilio’s palette is broad: oysters, mushrooms, octopus, tamales, risotto, fennel, waffles—every morsel becomes literal food for thought. And poetry.

Of course, there’s plenty of bread and wine. A presumably Catholic upbringing informs many of these poems. Biblical references abound, with Jesus making numerous appearances—sometimes directly, as in “Jesus as a Jaded Lover,” sometime more obliquely, as in “Whenever You Eat This.” One of my favorites in this vein is “First Food,” which recasts Eve from the Garden of Eden as a randy teenager. She describes herself, with Adam,

You’ve only to look at the vast diversity of life to understand that sex is a communication (no pun intended) that predates human speech, and even among humans, it’s arguably the one universal language (Maybe that’s why Babel had to fall?). This version of Genesis needs no serpent; Eve simply “walked to a tree called / ‘No’ and plucked a soft-bellied bulb / of fruit, nude as the moon.” I love that imagery—and I love how the lofty “forbidden fruit” is pared down to a single, palpable utterance: “No.” In some examinations, the forbidden fruit represents the knowledge of good and evil; here, it’s exactly what it was for all of us: unchecked carnal hormone-fueled desire. The description of tasting that fruit also hits home:

As this passage suggests, “hunger” for Emilio is not merely the body signaling depletion, it is a visceral craving to ingest life itself, to be fully alive (by consuming what is dead).

Many poems draw upon Emilio’s career in food service—he was evidently a waiter, and perhaps a cook. It’s that perspective that allows him to look on DaVinci’s “Last Supper” and ponder what no one else has (as far as I know): the serving staff. The painting is largely about what is to come—and for most viewers, that means the betrayal, death, and resurrection of Jesus. For Emilio, it’s the woman who’ll have to clean up the mess after everyone leaves, just as she does every night, regardless of whether Christ comes back with a satchel of eternity. And though the Bible is mum on the subject, I’d bet the disciples were not great tippers. (In fact, you have to wonder who paid for that dinner in the first place.)

I tend to be somewhat withdrawn from the poetry world; still, it’s slightly remarkable that Emilio and I have never met in person—judging by his poetry, we must’ve crossed paths, though not in real time. He has a poem dedicated to Chris Abani; he and I read together when brick-and-mortar bookstores were still a thing. There’s also a poem about B.H. Fairchild at a restaurant in Riverside—I once had lunch with him at a restaurant in Riverside. There are also references to San Luis Obispo, Southern California, not to mention Atlanta (though long after I spent any time there).

There is heartache in this book—allusions to a lover who abandoned the author, references to someone paralyzed in a tragic accident, divorced parents, bombings, anorexia—but overall, the tone is ebullient, rapturous. Food is a broad and universal topic, and Emilio manages to distill it all in a feast that delights every sense, like a perfect port-wine reduction. The book is clever, too, in its assembly. It starts with a poetic amuse bouche entitled “Rapture,” and ends with “Revelation,” which begins: “To begin with rapture and leave you in / a matter of seconds…” The Biblical references are totally on brand—but more importantly, what a wonderful Easter Egg for the reader!

As one of my favorite philosophers wrote, “Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested.” You can take any of these approaches with Kitchen Apocrypha, which will leave you feeling both sated and hungry for more.