Poems by Robbi Nester

The Maker: Albert Adria
After an episode of Netflix’s series, The Chef’s Table 
“Shut up and work!” That’s 
his credo, solo in the spotlight 
of his own invention. He’s 
a chemist, intent over his 
Bunsen burners, an astronomer 
attending as new worlds 
swim into focus in the shifting
eyepiece. Dyslexic, he left school 
at fifteen, working with his brother,
a chef. There, he learned 
to harness the oxen of his 
creative power, to plow
the ground of his brother’s 
reputation. In another age, 
he would have been a monk, 
closeted in a stuffy kitchen, 
distilling the essences of flowers. 
Here, he’s a magician who 
eschews the public eye, 
finds it difficult to speak. 
But always, his hands, his mind 
fashion some culinary sport,
mixture of tapas and sushi, 
like the liquid olive, a tiny yolk 
composed of olive juice. Nothing 
is what it seems. A whimsical 
octopus sushi roll bristles 
on a plate, like some strange 
caterpillar. Diners delight 
at a rose, capped with rosewater 
gel, delicious to behold. 
He couldn’t stop inventing 
if he tried, will never 
be anonymous again.

Home Grown: Sean Brock
 After an episode of Netflix series, The Chef’s Table
You grew up in the green Virginia hills, 
sliding on slag heaps overgrown 
with Jimson weed and kudzu, 
a childhood out of a dream, 
before your father died at 39 
and you became apprentice 
in your grandmother’s garden 
and kitchen, hoeing and peeling, 
feeding the murky jug of vinegar
its regular cup of wine, watering 
and weeding, putting by the family’s 
food for winter. In those hills, 
everyone had a garden 
where they teased out 
novel strains, varieties to bear 
the family name at county fairs 
and farmer’s markets, a richness 
disappearing even then—streaked 
and spotted beans, sweet melons, 
tomatoes, lumpy and fragrant, 
far from the corporate consistency 
we’ve grown to prize. Later, 
you searched for those lost seeds, 
tracing foods brought over 
on the slave ships, mixed new 
methods with the old, cooking 
the same few dishes obsessively 
for months to get them perfect--
brewing, planting, till your body 
just about gave out. At 39, 
the age your father died, 
you finally learned to live, 
standing in a field enjoying 
what you’d made, as God 
must have rested under the broad 
branches of the Live Oak, before 
leaving the world to its own wild ways.

Here is a recording of Robbi reading her poem The Maker. Use this code to access it: hSmKW^7u

Robbi Nester is the author of 4 books of poems, the most recent Narrow Bridge (Main Street Rag, 2019). She has also edited three anthologies. Her poetry, reviews, essays, and articles have appeared widely.

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