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# Feast
- URL: https://dianaludwick.com/feast/
- Published: 2026-07-21T12:49:29.000Z
- Updated: 2026-07-21T12:49:29.000Z
- Description: “Feast,” and ode to the magical women who keep me whole, written Tuesday, July 21, 2026 poem 202 in a series of 365 poems written by Diana Ludwick in 2026. Photo: "Summer Feast," by Diana Ludwick (c) 2026.
- Author: Diana Ludwick
- Tags: 2026 Poetry Challenge, Generational, Homage, Long form musings, Of Place, Poems, Reminiscing, Candles, Cholay, Coven, crème caramel, Daughters, Feast, Feeding your Soul, Goblets, High Summer, July, Lahori, Low Country Caviar, Mothers, Porcelain, Question, recipe, Salmon, Samovar, Soft Lens, Summer, Summer Feast, Tahdig, Weebles, What is New, What is Old, Women, #Migrated-1792872215677, #wp, #wp-post, #Import 2026-10-24 20:03

Sometimes feeding your soul  
looks like feeding others  
gathering a coven of sacred women  
to share the bounty of high summer,  
and the burdens on your mind.  
  
A Monday in July can feel  
like a certain Thursday in November  
if you give of yourself,   
invest in, embody a recipe,  
stand in a warm kitchen for hours   
stirring Lahori cholay down   
to the perfect texture;  
pitting your way through   
an orchard of stone fruit,  
dicing a battalion of carrots,  
poaching chicken in heavy cream   
before chiffonading tarragon   
and tossing in freshly-roasted walnuts.  
It looks like pouring injera batter   
onto hot pan until spongey magic arises.  
Straining spaghetti for a chilled noodle salad.  
Like tossing legumes and peppers with herbs  
to bring your Low Country caviar to life.  
  
For our Goddess hostess, it means:  
squeezing five cooked recipes   
into a Sunday night,   
then a Monday morning,   
and one more at lunchtime.  
Blooming saffron in hot water  
before lacquering a salmon   
with the golden broth.  
Preparing the celebratory tahdig,   
two ways, arranging the prized,   
crisped sheets from the pan bottom  
atop mounds of steaming rice.  
Laying the table with finery:  
platinum-rimmed porcelain   
and the polished silver.  
Fluffing a field of pillows  
lighting the candles,   
adjusting the napkins just so.  
  
The sun falls low across the trees,  
car lights flicker on mailboxes.  
The doorbell rings;   
arms raise for hugs around hefty platters.  
Your dish nestles in among the rest,  
setting the scene for a kindred meal.  
  
And now, separate offerings are one.  
We each share the highlights   
of our gifts of history, of taste:  
the spice composition,   
the preparation intricacies,   
the caveats on "caviar."   
  
Bone china Weeble-wobbles on knees,  
forks clink on clutched goblets.  
And now the communion begins:  
  
Within this circle,  
we explore ourselves.  
We ask ourselves:   
What is *Old* for you?   
What is *New*?  
How do you hold these truths?  
Who are you, now?   
How are you, truly?  
What can we share,   
in this moment,  
to be of service?  
  
We reveal, we observe,   
we process, we wonder.  
We praise those not with us,  
we cheer to sisterhood,   
to lived experience as  
employees, bosses,   
mothers, daughters, guardians,   
each individuals   
now part of something bigger.  
  
And as we proceed,   
we turn from chittering laughs  
to chest-concussive tears.  
Why are our daughters *like* this?  
Why do our mothers *do* that?  
Am I my mother? Are you?  
We question,   
probe with a soft lens,   
unfold the answers;  
hold the lessons in our hearts   
like we palm our emptying plates.  
  
Our long-awaited feast,   
a delight of found kinship,  
is a practice that feeds all senses.  
  
By the time the hour calls   
for a samovar roiling, foretelling   
the arrival of glasses of tea   
and crème caramel in goblets,  
we have marinated and rested.  
We have sliced and seasoned  
we have scooped and cupped   
and poured ourselves  
into the space between us,   
a new recipe of our collective design.  
  
Bellies full, hearts mended,  
we go into the dark humid night  
our shoulders lighter,   
our souls massaged.  
  
Like crushed mint   
steeped in our neuroses,  
we depart this place   
with missions clearer,   
our palate,   
and our minds,   
cleansed.