Pleasure Boat Studio: A Literary Press The Immigrant's Table by Mary Lou Sanelli Poetry / Recipes ISBN: 1-929355-15-7 Price: $13.95 (trade paperback) * 88 pages "In this collection, Mary Lou Sanelli brings poems out of the ivory tower, straight to the family dinner table. No fast-food substitutes here, as the poet recreates a culture in which food preparation is a cherished ritual. Sanelli's clear-eyed, yet loving, awareness of family members' foibles, including her own, provides the reader with a menu that nourishes both body and spirit, a gourmet treat for the imagination." » Madeline Defrees About the book: The Immigrant's Table is a beautiful collection of poems and recipes, an odd pairing until you read how Mary Lou Sanelli has managed it. In the hands of this adept poet, these seemingly disparate elements flow together like pasta sauce and garlic, like Chianti and cheese. Pleasure Boat Studio: A Literary Press is extremely pleased to be able to bring out such a work. We feel that it is rare among books of poems in that it not only looks good and reads beautifully, but it actually "tastes" wonderful. In fact (to continue this sensory mode), a reader comes away with the sweet smells of basil and oregano embedded in his or her nostrils, the sounds of the poems as well as the sounds of the conversation - often loud and boisterous - echoing in his or her ears. Sanelli introduces her reader to her family in the most Italian of settings: around a table. And in introducing her family, she also reveals those long-held family recipes for a great meal as well as those for a strong and lively family. As a first-generation American and daughter of Italian immigrants who settled in the Northeast, Mary Lou Sanelli longed to break free of Old World constraints of religion and culture both emotionally and physically. Upon arriving in the seemingly liberal west coast, she felt at ease, connected to the land and mind-set with the wide-eyed glee of a newcomer and with a newfound sense of place (which, alas, lessened after a few years). Initially, she imitated the laid-back dress and manners of her new friends. She tried to lower her voice when she spoke. To wave her hands around less. In a sense, to leave her passionate way of communicating behind. In spite of her efforts to conform, however, she hauled her upbringing around with her. As the years passed, the more she tried to leave her truest self behind, the more it snuck up to embrace her. To reclaim who she was, she had to return home, at least metaphorically, to reproduce what she had inherited onto the page. What she found, repeatedly, was how this quest into the voice of her past triggered memories of food so bountifully offered at the center of her family life. And how coming of age in a home where tradition was absolute helped shape and strengthen her individual life, and, ultimately, the lives of the poems that followed. About the Author: Mary Lou Sanelli was raised in Connecticut, educated in Boston, and now lives in Port Townsend, a coastal village located on Washington state's Olympic Peninsula, and in Seattle's downtown Belltown district. This is her fifth collection of poetry. Her poems have been published widely and her poetic essays can be heard as commentary on the program Weekday on KUOW Radio, a Seattle based NPR station, as well as read in Port Townsend's newspaper, The Leader, in her column entitled From A Writer's Notebook. She presents her work and teaches writing workshops extensively throughout the Northwest. For more information, contact Jack Estes Pleasure Boat Studio: A Literary Press 201 W. 89th St., #6F New York, NY 10024 Email pleasboat@nyc.rr.com Tel/Fax: 1-888-810-5308 THE RETURN My mother is stunned when I ask to borrow her recipes, yet she senses an opportunity lingering in my voice, that I may be grateful for the years she relinquished to motherhood, just how little appreciation I've shown her till now. Presently, she accepts my lack of interest in cooking as much as my need for solitude and the fact I won't move back east ever. When she hands me the stack of index cards, flimsy from use, age, kitchen spills-no words, just a trace of nobleness in her smile, the truth of her life and so my own held within. On these Pacific shores, uprooted east-coast kids beat on drums like ancient natives, practice self-analysis in lieu of religion. Without formality, holidays seem like a record played at the wrong speed, faded as the T-shirts men wear to Christmas dinner. And to my cautious, introverted neighbors from Minnesota, my boisterous opinions are typically mistaken for a bite of anger. But it is here in a newer world, I've redefined my life and, so it seems to my family, the world. I send poems in place of gifts fully wrapped, bear books instead of children. I intend to retrace each entree by the book, no new-age, low-fat, vegetarian innovations. Hear what is said when my mother's food rolls back the past on my tongue, nothing short of transcending. Much like when I bought my home and spent days lifting flaps of wallpaper to see who lived before. Layer by layer, another voice dislodged from the crumbly dark, ringing out dramatically human as my own.