For this week’s Gastro Fridays, I thought I’d share with you a poem I wrote for a poetry slam in Chicago. The Encyclopedia Slam, which is hosted by Robb Telfer and Shanny Maney-Magnuson, is sponsored by Young Authors of Chicago. Each month, Robb and Shanny pick a theme and assign topics from an encyclopedia. Teens in Young Authors and friends/colleague’s of Robb and Shanny then write a poem or piece of writing based off of their topic. The show I participated in was called The Visual Spectrum, and my topic was the color orange. I wrote about the first thought that came to mind when I heard orange–Cheetos dust. I’m not a professional poet, but I quite liked it myself. Hope you do it. Happy Gastro Friday! The story of my life can be told through a trail of cheeto dust smudges found in the pages of my favorite books. Some people paint to express themselves, other people write. I smudge in shades of orange provided by Frito Lay, a different cheeto for every moment, every life phase. I am a true connoisseur of those chunky cheesy corn crunchies. My muse. My cheetos. I cut my teeth on the holy trinity of American cheetos: the crunchy, the puffs, and the flaming hot, each with their own unique essence. The assertive, almost pungent cheddar flavor of the crunchy left an imprint on my young soul. The puffs scatter a trail of Cheeto dust as subtle as a Chicago parking ticket, but still light so you could blow away the evidence. The flaming hot Cheetos left vermillion hues across the page and my heart, a violent stain that got me through my first break up. Their fiery kiss would cause my finger tips and lips to go numb to divert me from the pain, but usually left the pages looking like a giant battle scar. Not long ago, I discovered that Cheetos are not simply an American delicacy. Cheetos are a gift to the world, sent with love, from Chester Cheetah. Ziahuatenejo, Mexico, summer of 2005. At 5am, I walked through the local fish market, really just blankets on beaches with the morning catch. I strolled past the marin, the salmon, the tuna that stared back at me, inhaling the scent of salt water in the air. A toothless old woman was selling shrimp the size of lobsters, and a snapper so large, it could eat my cat and that?s when I saw IT. Hiding in the tiny convenience store at the end of the market. Flaming hot cheetos with lime. A different cheetos for every moment. Adelaide, South Australia, summer of 2007. After surfing in a sea of sapphire and stopping the car for a kangaroo crossing, I sipped a nice shiraz, sampled my first camel meat pie, my first emu pate. But the camel, the emu, the kangaroo, even the alligator could not hold a candle to crispy, salty American bacon. Australia does not have American bacon. They have ham. Ham is not bacon- it is not crispy. It is not thin. It is not delicious. Australia does not have bacon?oh no, my friend, but they do have Cheetos cheese and bacon balls. A different Cheeto for every moment. Seoul, Korea, fall of 2006. Bi Bim Bap, pork skewers on a charcoal street vendor grill, and Bulgogi flavored Cheetos. A different Cheeto for ever moment. Lima, Peru, winter of 2005. Fried plantains, purple potatoes, and hot dog flavored Cheetos. A different cheetos for every moment. Gujarat, India, winter of 2004. Street vendor curry, vegetable samosas, Cheetos Cheesy masala balls. A different Cheeto for every moment. The story of my life can be told through a trail of neon orange Cheeto dust smudges found smeared across a map of the world. Tracking my memories, my experiences, my life from my orange stained finger tips. A different cheeto for every moment.
