Peach Chutney and Poems

I don't have as much time for writing this morning--I spent some of my writing time making a peach chutney for dinner tonight.  

I am remembering the first time I made a chutney--there was a recipe for a complete Indian meal in Mollie Katzen's The Enchanted Broccoli Forest Cookbook, and I tried the whole thing.  It was a revelation, the way different flavors combined in a way I had never tasted and would never have thought to put together.  It was long ago, and we didn't have Indian restaurants in Knoxville, Tennessee where I lived.  The most exotic food we had was Chinese, and it wasn't exactly authentic.

This morning's chutney making has led to an interesting poem that I'm in the process of writing:  peaches that cling, a woman who has dropped her youngest off at college, the passing of the seasons, the growing up of children.  It may be done, but there may be more, so I'll let it rest and see.

I am amazed:  two solid poem ideas in two days.  I have spent much of the summer wondering if I can even call myself a poet anymore.  I have written down a line or two each week, but that hardly makes me a poet.

Here is the first stanza of this morning's poem:

Her last child dropped off for the first
week of college, she returns to peaches
past their prime and pork chops at their pull
date. She chops the onions for chutney
and lets the tears come.

Let me lace up my walking shoes and let this poem continue to percolate.