Words
What I Eat in a Day (Hypervigilant Homeschool Mom Edition)
A Mini-Anthology of Poetry, Prose, and Pontification
By Rebecca Peacock Dragon
1. “Breakfast”
When I broke the hand-thrown mug
Because it slipped from my fingers
Wet from washing dishes
And the thickly glazed handle
Shaped like a snake
Shot across the floor
Disturbing the cat
Who was sleeping by the floor vent blowing hot air,
I never imagined it here:
On the back of the toilet in the recently renovated half-bath
Ready to catch my first morning pee.
Before husband is awake
But after children have been handed bowls of sprouted millet porridge,
I hold the handle-less cup
In between my legs
And only get a little on my hands.
I check for clarity
The first item on the checklist of
Am-I-Dying checklist checkity-checks.
Inhale,
The bow of my lip resting on the rim of the cup,
Faintly sulphuric. Non-offensive.
Check.
I dip my finger in, just the tip
Rub my thumb against it
Eyes closed for focus.
Viscosity thicker than usual.
Dehydration or Diphtheria or Deus Absconditus,
Imminent Death?
Check.
The final point of evidence:
A giant swig
From the handle-less mug
That I dropped on the floor
Disturbing the cat
Before it became the vessel from which
I taste my first morning urine
To measure the volatile balance of wang and salt
Against what I remember from yesterday’s pee
And Tuesday’s before that.
2. “Mid-Morning Snack”
Meat consumption is killing us
According to a particular niche of vegetable enthusiasts
Who don’t want to ingest the adrenaline and cortisol laden
Flesh of the sacrificed
And sentient
Doe-eyed bovine and porcine creatures
Part and Parceled onto Styrofoam flats
Wrapped in cellophane
In the refrigerator section
Of the local Shop-Rite.
So, we eat apple muffins
Made with organic hard red wheat
And a scant amount of potato starch for egg-less binding.
I don’t think about the millions of mice and lesser life forms
That met their end
At the tip of the thresher’s blade.
Fuck those mice, I guess.
3. “Lacto-Fermented Sauerkraut”
Ingredients:
4-5 head-sized organic and locally sourced cabbages
Pickling salt (Grey Celtic Sea preferred)
3 pounds carrots
2 pounds onions
Seeds of choice (caraway, fennel, anise, cumin)
5-gallon food-grade bucket with lid
There is magic that happens
When mixing salt and shredded cabbage
And leaving it
Undisturbed
While it becomes fertile ground
Blooming bacteria and yeast
And if you keep the bucket in your kitchen
When guests come over for lunch,
After “hello”
You will need to tell them
That what they are smelling is alchemy,
Not farts.
4. “Tea and Placenta”
I hold my daughter’s hand as the boys run the length of the dirt road
And pull the wild bergamot at their roots.
The catnip from the horse paddock
Already bunched and tied with brown twine
Hanging from the rafters of the sheepfold
That when dried will go into the row of Ball jars
In the pantry next to the
Nettle for lady-problems
Red Clover for imbalance of bile
Yellow mullein flower in oil for earaches
When we return from our daily constitutional
The kettle whistles on the stove
I take the jar of mint from the shelf
A plate of dehydrated crackers
Made from carrot pulp and flax
And raw goat’s milk cheese
That finished draining its whey that very morning
Tied to the kitchen faucet
Suspended over the sink like a piñata
And set the table for afternoon tea.
My smart phone
Hidden in my pocket
Lest it destroy this provincial mirage,
Sounds an alarm
Reminding me to get the amber bottle
Labeled with a reproduction of a wood block print
Of the Tree of Life
Filled with the freeze dried remains
Of the afterbirth of my youngest
That was vacuum sealed and mailed overnight
To a team of hippies in Colorado
Who have dedicated their lives
To the drying, grinding, and encapsulating of placenta
For those of us too squeamish to cook it like a steak,
Which they returned to me in a rough linen pouch
And a note of heartfelt thanks on handmade paper.
I put the recommended daily dose into the palm of my hand
Two veg caps
Taken with tea.
5. “Potluck Dinner”
On the first Thursday of every month
The co-op families trickle in
With pots of venison stew
Sourdough made with spelt
Roasted brussels sprouts
And cookies sweetened with black strap molasses
Their children in felted wool
And muck boots
Carrying sticks like swords
Pocket knives
Hooked to their belt loops.
But on this Thursday,
I committed the cardinal sin
Putting two whole bags of frozen corn
Into my minestrone
Where it floated to the top
In a golden slick
Before I served it to all of the children
Seated around the wide plank farm table
And Vanessa walked by the steaming pot
As her boy ate the soup just steps away
And asked where the corn was sourced from
I could not tell a lie
Gestured to the discarded bags on the counter
Corn sourced from Dollar General in a pinch
She picked up the flaccid bags in shaking hands
Panic taking over her face
Clenched teeth
Rabid eyes
She leaped like a gazelle
Crying to her boy to stop eating the Corn
PUT YOUR SPOON DOWN NOW
Lucifer comes as an angel of light
And barring the evidence on the counter,
Dollar General corn
Floating in soup
Appears to be a twin to the organic
7-dollar bag from Whole Foods
But looks are deceiving
And non-organic corn
Might disrupt the scales of health and vitality.
At our next co-op day
Vanessa requested third party mediation
Before being willing to allow her son
To share space with me again.
And I found myself thinking about women who kill,
How their preferred method is poison
And how, in this neurotic world of our own making,
Poison is subjective.
6. “Midnight Snack”
When my body won’t let go
Of its wound-up vicious tangle of
Muscle fiber
And ebb and flow of filling and draining breasts
And the babies are asleep
And husband is supine and snoring
With slack jaw
A metronome of irritation,
I finally give in to the plaguing dirty thoughts
And make the 20-minute drive to Bennington
(In my pajamas)
Where the golden arches have a 24-hour drive thru.
I make one pass for a box of 10 nuggets
And eat them in my car.
When the box is empty, I think,
“Fuck it.”
I have defiled myself
So might as well go all in.
I make a second pass for another box
Add in a fudge Sundae,
Remember when I was a child
When the Sundae only brought pleasure
Not self-debasing guilt.
In the three-row mini van
Sits this mother of three
Unaware that the guilt cuts a wound much deeper than the
Sugars
Vegetable Gums
Emulsifiers
And
“Flavoring.”
Rebecca Peacock Dragon was born, adopted and raised in inner-city Washington DC. She lives in Western MA with her husband and three teenagers. Aside from being a recovering hypervigilant homeschool mom, she is a prolific writer of persuasive and personal essay, where she explores the lived experience of being adopted and raised in genetic isolation. Her work is featured on her platform Adoption: Myths, Misgivings, and Madness, where she also hosts the work of other adopted people. Her essays, creative works, and op-eds have been published in Selkie Zine, Assignment Magazine, Bennington Banner, and VT Digger. She also creates short satirical and informational videos about the adoption industrial complex on her platform Guaranteed Happy Adoptee TM (TikTok).
She earned her MFA in Creative Writing Fiction from the Mountainview MFA program at Southern New Hampshire University. She also holds a BA in Theater (Performance) and French, which she prefers to call “a degree in Charm School.” She currently works as an adjunct professor (comp, public speaking, acting, and publishing) at Franklin Pierce University where she also serves as Editor of their literary magazine, Northern New England Review. You can find more about her work here: https://rebeccapeacockdragon.com/