Few authors of any genre have the distinctive voice of Anthony Bourdain. Reading anything he’s written on paper is the equivalent of watching him speak on television: you can literally hear the words come out of his mouth as if the passage were filmed. Of course, this voice—this persona—was carefully developed using diction and tone. “Voice” may be tricky to grasp as a concept, but the tools of our craft can help us develop our own—and of course, we can learn from the best.

When I’m reading Bourdain, I’m reminded of my favorite Kendrick Lamar lyric: “F*** a double-entendre, I want you to feel this sh**.”

And isn’t that just like a meal, like a poem? I love Lamar’s sentiment here because of its resonance with the confessional: to write is to say something true and intimate in one’s own authentic voice. It’s to connect with a reader and say, “hey, here’s a part of me that’s genuine and real.”

to write is to say something true and intimate
in one’s own authentic voice. It’s to connect with a reader and say,
“hey, here’s a part of me that’s genuine and real.”

I think the same is true of cooking. A meal can be masterfully created, following every measurement, every step—but still be found lacking. A simple meal can be surprisingly pleasing. We’re familiar with the adage “made with love,” and we can roll our eyes and groan at what’s become cliché, but we can’t help if there’s still truth to this one.

Intention builds connection; craft and skill sustain it.

In an episode of Parts Unknown filmed in The Bronx, Bourdain visits a high school writing classroom as a guest teacher. The scenes within the classroom are only a tiny part of the episode, but if we pause at the right moment, we can see the outline of his lesson on the whiteboard:

His first words of advice? Ask “WHO IS TALKING?”

Showing up as yourself on the page is crucial to connect to the reader in a meaningful way. This task can be surprisingly difficult, I feel, even now as I write this blog. Am I overthinking this? Am I adopting a voice that’s not my own? Is this sounding like a cheap parody of Bourdain? Are you rolling your eyes at what feels disingenuous?

Or have I succeeded in making you feel like we’re just hanging on my porch together with a full French press and my grandma’s set of coffee mugs? Do you understand that I care about this craft, and about you?

Years ago, I inherited my grandmother’s kitchen stuff. Having grown up a few blocks away, her house often felt the most like home to me, and I’m grateful every time I sip from one of these old cups or eat off one of those plates. This story is part of the structure, the form. It’s part of the poem.

Do you understand that I care about this craft, and about you?

To me, food will never not be romantic in some capacity. To cook for someone is to nourish them, using your hands, your skills, your time. Time is our most valuable resource, and to have someone use theirs so that you can delight at a combination of flavors and textures, to be nourished, to sit at a shared table with a full heart, is no small gesture.

“I don’t think I like duck,” I had told a poet-friend, after seeing photos of a beautiful meal she prepared on social media, “but I’d be willing to try again.” She then did the absolutely unthinkable: invited me to her home, procured a whole duck, and spent an entire day preparing it four ways for a four-course duck dinner, each plate made with intention and attention to things I like (and don’t like) in food. It was incredible. I love duck.

While each course was stunning in its ingredients (high-quality and local, when possible), the most nourishing moment was the final course: a simple broth. She had cooked the duck bones down into a broth and seasoned it with “gifts”: some mushroom bouillon brought back from a family member’s trip overseas, some dried cauliflower mushrooms and morrells foraged from the nearby woods, and herbs grown on her porch. The story of this dish (and all dishes, honestly) was as crucial as the ingredients and the labor.

The same is true of poetry: a poem can be skillful, it can be creative, it can have the strongest diction and chef’s kiss metaphors, but if it’s lacking the story—if its intention is not transparent—or if the reader is not connected to the writer as human to human, it falls flat. It’ll get you through to the next meal, sure, but it’s not eating, not in the way Bourdain urges us to.

“You need love,” Bourdain writes in an oft-quoted passage from the Les Halles Cookbook. And while he’s speaking about cooking professionally, I think we can absolutely apply this to the composition of poetry:

“Hopefully it’s love for the people you’re cooking for, because the greatest and most memorable meals are as much about who you are with as they are about what you ate. But love for what you’re doing, and for the ingredients you’re doing it with, will more than suffice. … You must like cooking for other people, even if you neither know nor like them. You must enjoy the fact that you are nourishing them, pleasing them, giving the best you’ve got.”

There’s little worth in aiming to dazzle. Aim to please, to connect, to nourish.

Perhaps we can turn this thought into a writing prompt: Think of a dish that is your personal comfort food. What is its story? How did it enter your life? Pull up a recipe for this dish and consider its ingredients: where do they come from? How do the steps build up (or break down) foods into a meal? Now, write a poem using the images and language generated here. End the poem with the speaker placing a plate of food in front of a beloved.

Don’t worry about craft; instead, consider your reader’s feelings towards the story you’re telling.

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Stacey Balkun is the author of Sweetbitter & co-editor of Fiolet & Wing. Her creative and critical work has appeared in Attached to the Living World, Best New Poets, Mississippi Review, and several other volumes. Stacey holds a PhD in Literature from the University of Mississippi, Oxford, where she was awarded the Holdich Scholar Award, and an MFA in Poetry from Fresno State. She has been granted fellowships and grants from the Modern Language Association, PEN America, and the Helene Wurlitzer Foundation in support of her writing. Stacey lives in New Orleans, where she can often be found in the community garden or making puppets.