If You Were Here We'd Have to Cook
a prose poem for my Crestone Poetry Festival beloveds
If you were here we’d have to cook. Bob’s Diner, Crestone's only greasy spoon, is gone for good. Tshering and Ling sold The Desert Sage, now in the throes of a facelift, and it’s been said their famous burger is on retreat somewhere trying to be chocolate. Scott and Ava’s Bliss Cafe aka the Crestone Brewery, home of the prickly pear marg with a shot of local piñon hydrosol, and Mandala Pizza, maker of the Close Encounter Calzone, are both closed, and the Silver Lotus, that new little food truck with tasty San Luis Valley-style Asian fusion, isn’t open in the cold. And Buck’s Wood-fired Pizza, also an outdoor affair, keeps the strangest days and random hours when brother Seth’s not hunting or hugging his kid. Hungry? too tired to cook? Check the hours on Facebook. You likely won’t get lucky, unless you like the folky Mystic Rose next door. What’s that? It’s closed? Hm. And Cloud Station (this omnivore recommends the paleo bowl and GF carrot cake) closes at 1 or 2, so around 4, I’d introduce you to Diana at the Merc, our little grocery store.
If you were here we’d have to cook.
In the A.M. I’d whisk a lumpless matcha with maple syrup and a splash of 2%. I promise not to scorch the leaves. Or stovetop a Bialetti pot of single shot of espresso if you prefer, and fry a green egg from our feathered girls (please don’t tell the POA about our secret flock), toast a slice of Everett and Anoushka’s homemade Mountain Mama Complet or Integral, pile it open-faced with arugula of unknown origin, a dash of salt. Peel a tangerine from some Florida orchard (try not to think too hard about that state).
For lunch we could stack a sandwich on the same bread (or gluten free in the freezer, Laurie)—maybe with some Scanga sliced chicken and cheddar from Salida (sadly, not Saleeda), nestled under some Elephant Cloud organic mixed greens that drove in on a truck in bulk this morning. Toss in some baby carrots and a handful of cheap Voodoo chips, our guilty pleasure, on the side. Or forget the bread—this could be a salad instead. I’d whip up some ginger dressing with the old Crestone Brewery recipe a cook slipped me pre-Covid.
If you were here, we’d have to cook.
Come dark, if Dorell had time to marinate the ribs, he’d fire up the Traeger, blow your mind with his famous barbecue. And the next night, he’d panko and air fry some chunked avocados and catfish fillets, stir up his chili lime sour cream, shred more cheddar and fresh cilantro. I’d oil up the cast iron and warm the tortillas. Best fish tacos in town. For dessert, we’d blue torch the creme brûlée I baked earlier in the day, wasting the whites of all those eggs.
If we’re lucky, Julie will have brought more of what’s left of the liquor from Ziggies, oldest blues bar in Denver (man, I miss it), and you can even sit on two old Ziggies bar stools in my kitchen, reminisce those bluesy poem fests. We’d shoot some tequila, laugh too loud, peel a Peruvian mango (no stringy Mexicano), available here only in Febrero, so smooth, muscular, juicy, and watch those poets from Albuquerque feed each other slice by slice on the tongue, communion minus the body of Christ.
If you’re too drunk to walk or find your way through our Baca Grande maze to your air-bnb bed, don’t worry, one of us will drive you. Don’t forget to look up as you stumble out into the valley night, up the steps. More stars than you have ever seen will suck off your face, swallow you whole, spit out the stone of your dark soul, and you will want to write about it before you lay your head on the pillow.