When I order a corned beef sandwich on panini with a thousand island dressing, I'm reminded of the very first time I learned of this condiment in my childhood. Of course it was because of my mother, who loved to entertain friends and members of her various women's clubs, if Tupperware parties or flood relief goods packing can be called "entertaining." They were all women of a certain standing: earnest wives of clerks or lawyers, unmarried schoolteachers; now and then a woman from Hokkaido or Saipan, married to a local and eager for friendship and support in a new land. They shared new recipes, which were mostly old familiars dressed up: for instance, squares of white bread pushed into muffin tins and toasted to form edible cups for chicken salad. Once, when I was barely in my teens, she took me to a burger joint and ordered beer and a 7 Up. It's called a Shandy when you mix them, she said, amusedly offering a taste. It didn't occur to me then to wonder how she knew such things: deviled eggs, pill- box hats, maraschino cherries. Dark stockings with rhinestone seams, which she expertly slipped over shapely calves.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
