Americana Stories is a weekly feature of poetry and prose that examines and re-envisions American culture.
To view previous Americana Stories, visit our archives.
The Food Court
The Food Court is a featured section, where contributors explore American traditions related to food, its consumption, and cultural and regional significance.
Americana Stories—Poetry
Peter Peter, by Linda Cooper
She lit a match, a candle,
a wick that was once only string
and wax. Something happened before that.
Her cheek on tile. Boot and fist.
The walls too slick to climb.
Slow seep of dignity and anger
until only loneliness remained.
Read Linda’s work here.
Americana Stories—Nonfiction
Revel—Nonfiction by Angela Townsend
On days that shine, my eyes are open.
I am still blinking, adjusting to the light that does not seem to be going anywhere. It’s not that I expected it to abandon me, yet here I am, surprised by its extended stay.
Read—and listen—to Angela’s work here.
Americana Stories—Poetry
Who Knows What the Barren Snow Will Bring, by Elizabeth Burk
“His battered overnight bag, faded brown,
zipper frayed, burst open as he rushed”
Read—and listen—to Elizabeth’s poem here.
Americana Stories—Nonfiction
Rattlesnakes, by Don Noel
I was eighteen years old when I first heard the admonitory buzz of a rattlesnake’s tail.
Read Don’s work here.
Americana Stories, The Food Court—Essay
Meatballs, by Amy Cook
Having angled off into our adult existences, it is not unusual for my siblings and I to be apart on Thanksgiving. The mornings of padding around in the oversized t-shirts, flipping back and forth, from the real version of the parade to the suspect one on CBS, are long retired.
Read Amy’s essay here.
Americana Stories—Poetry
Cicero Said Memory is the Strong Mental Grasp of Matter and Words,
by Abriana Jette
Language leaves him first. He fumbles his words.
Cicero said, “silence is the great art of conversation” but his silence maddens.
Read—and listen—to Abriana’s poem here.
Americana Stories, The Food Court—Fiction
Make Peace with the Cake, by Olga Zilberbourg
Our Leo was six or seven weeks old when we received advice from fellow Russians, as we came to call ourselves after twenty years in the US. They had two kids in elementary school and when they shared their parenting philosophy, Sioma and I listened.
Read Olga’s full story here.
Americana Stories—Poetry
Crow Woman, by Geraldine Connolly
Mrs. Kipp paid a fabulous sum for her.
Thirty horses, a gun, two dozen tins
of tobacco, ten blankets were traded
for Crow Woman and her daughter.
Read Geraldine’s full poem here.
Harvest, by Jess Woolford
Read Jess’ full poem here.
Listen to Jess’ poem here.
Sunday Dinner, by Diane Pickett
In the Deep South, religion was practiced every Sunday, and dinner at Mama’s was just as important as the sermon—and sometimes better attended. Many a churchgoer longed not only for salvation but was convinced it resided in that pot of chicken and dumplings or plate of fried chicken, buttered biscuits the size of small pancakes, and mashed potatoes awaiting them at Mama’s. The conclusion of every sermon was followed by a rapid retreat with murmurings of “Mighty nice, Preacher, but I got to get Mama on home so she can stir up some biscuits for dinner, but we’ll see you at prayer meeting come Wednesday night. We never miss, you know.”
Read Diane’s full story here.
Listen to Diane’s story here.
Ode to a Calumet Can, by Joseph DuPre
Read Joseph’s full poem here.
The Meat of My Youth, by Dina Elenbogen
At dinner, I’d tuck the half-chewed pieces of meat under my plate so that I’d be allowed to leave the table. I didn’t trust my mother’s roast the same way I didn’t trust the ground beef or hotdogs served at the school cafeteria. On meat days at school, my mother would pack me a peanut butter sandwich in a brown paper bag. The only carnivorous exception I’d make was for the McDonald’s hamburgers we’d eat on the way home from Thursday afternoon Hebrew School, before returning to our kosher and reasonably health-conscious Skokie, Illinois home.
Read Dina’s full piece here.
Listen to Dina’s piece here.
Brick, by Emily Hoover
Dad slips the brick of instant noodles into boiling water. I sit at the table, my feet not yet touching the floor. We use past-due hospital bills as placemats. Dad pushes Mom’s vase of fake flowers aside when he hands me the steaming bowl. The canned chicken is rubbery, like always. He makes me eat the frozen peas he sprinkled in and when I ask to be excused, he drinks my broth.
Read Emily’s full piece here.
Listen to Emily read her piece here.
Flea Market Concessions, by Anne Graue
After my third spinal surgery, I walk unbalanced
through antiques, looking for Lu-Ray, Wedgwood,
anything royal from England or Germany, even
Austria if I’m lucky. Japanese luster- and transfer-ware
catch my eye. The roasting smell of cashews in sugar-
cinnamon coating emanates from a booth
next to lemonade—fresh and sweet.
Read Anne’s full poem here.
Big Boy Graveyard, by Elijah Sparkman
At night, that night, in the Big Boy Graveyard, rabbits played cards underneath the holographic moon. There was a squirrel, too, that scampered. And a fox. And an owl. And all the Big Boy statues that lay in that field smiled unceasingly, a hollow purgatory, a big jumbled picnic table fable of a mountain. Me and you, when we drove down there on Halloween, we didn’t know what we were getting ourselves into. The hickory smoke sound of your playlist.
Read Elijah’s full piece here.
Freshman Year, by Helen Chen
At the turn of May, Home is a subway ride between rooms completely my own, stories I don’t tell anyone back home, that pass around
the dinner table. Don’t be a guest grandma says, shaking the pan. I canceled plans with myself, take a nap to eat fried eggs, lettuce split
itself between teeth cracks still warm. My grandma calls me her 心肝, dear as in I am close to her
heart. You’re changed, that’s what grandpa keeps telling me. Why are you crying?
Read Helen’s full poem here.
American Breakfast | صبحانه آمریکای, by Mahru Elahi
Farmer John’s breakfast sausage smelled like divorce. As a child, the aroma of all that hot grease in a cast iron pan was both delightful and terrifying.
Mom would pull the tidy pack of sausages from the refrigerator, the little fingers snuggled close to each other beneath a thin sheet of plastic. They were considered a treat because they took time to cook, unlike the instant oatmeal that was served on school days. They also had the distinction of being offered only on the occasional weekend when Baba was out of town and unable to hold up his end of the custody agreement.Read Mahru’s full essay here.
Listen to Mahru read her essay here.
Side quest, by Emma McCoy
No one could ever convince me food isn’t being, living,
something like red thread tying, tying, tying people
around the ankles, or thigh, somewhere they don’t look.
Look, at Jesus: “this bread is my body.” Or look, at weddings:
food-laden tables. Look, at Rome: “panem et circus.”
Read Emma’s full poem here.
the museum of americana: A LITERARY REVIEW 