Anthology & Poetry & Cookies, A Mother's Knife

Poetry is Community: Anthology & Poetry & Cookies.

Michael Sedano

The call for poems circulates in December 2025. In early April 2026 the publisher, Golden Foothills Press, predicts hard copies in-hand at the April 25 “Poetry & Cookies” Altadena poetry celebration now in its 20^th year. Click here for more history.

That’s fast turn around, but it's even more pressured. The Editor-in-Chief sends in January his selections to the publisher. That's three months to produce hard copies in each published poet's hands and a supply to sell at the book launch, "Poetry & Cookies. Meeting a demanding schedule like this reflects professionalism and experience. the publication--and the laureate program--offer a role model any community can emulate.

The anthology comes out of the two-year terms of Altadena Library’s Co-Poets Laureate. The Laureate program itself grew from librarian Polly Dutton’s initiative. In early years, Dutton held a poetry and cookies reading celebrating the laureate’s service. 

In 2015, Laureate Thelma T. Reyna published the first Altadena Poetry Review: Anthology. Since that first book, Reyna's family-owned press, Golden Foothills Press, has published all but two issues in the series.

Of the 2026 number, publisher Reyna observes:

In the 11-year history of the Altadena Poetry Review: Anthology the 2026 Anthology is the largest ever. Our debut edition, in 2015, had 105 poems written by 60 mostly local poets. 

This edition, the 8th book (none were produced in the COVID era), has 180 poems written by 158 poets from across the state and nation, and down under. The book has 325 pages, vs. 178 pp. in 2015. 

One might say that the visibility and renown of our Altadena poetry community, and its literary gem, is growing. 

Kudos to all the poets in this book; to its Editor-in-Chief, Co-Poet Laureate Lester Graves Lennon ; and to Assistant Editor and Co-Poet Laureate in Altadena, Sehba Sarwar.

A year ago, thousands of people fled their homes as miles of Altadena neighborhoods burned to the ground in the Eaton Fire. Today, the region slowly rebuilds its structures while it strengthens and rebuilds its spirit. Altadena Poetry Review Anthology 2026 captures what fire cannot destroy and what poetry affirms and sustains: a community’s spirit and hopefulness.

Here's a link to Golden Foothills Press where pre-orders are soon in the offing. For now, browse the publisher's catalog for its lineup of contemporary views and arte. Attend Poetry & Cookies and buy copies of the Altadena Poetry Review: Anthology and listen as selected readers and open mic'ers share their work.

Altadena Library and Poets Laureate Lester Graves Lennon and Sehba Sarwar, along with publisher Golden Foothills Press, welcome you to this year’s 3:00-6:00 p.m. Poetry & Cookies on April 25, 2026 at Bob Lucas Memorial Library & Literacy Center, 2659 Lincoln Ave, Altadena, CA 91001.

https://altadenalibrary.libnet.info/event/16132810

 

He Finds Mom’s Knife

Mom used that long blade to test the doneness of the barbacoa, the star of every familia pachanga. Of course, the beef isn’t the only feature. When la familia shows up for a party they load the serving tables with side dishes like potato salad, beans, moles, arroz, handmade tortillas from a distant tortilleria, and the always hit of the fiesta, Stella’s chile.

I owned too much stuff when I left my Pasadena home and since it didn't fit in Altadena, I rented a storage locker, so when I lost everything I ever owned in the fire, fifty boxes of random stuff were what I had left.

I lost Mom’s handwritten recipe for the 3-day barbacoa marinade in the Eaton Fire, along with most of my fotos of familia pachangas. That stuff in a storage locker escaped the fires and that’s where Mom’s knife turned up. 

I imagine Mom selecting the knife back before I was born. 

Dad is riding a tank to Leipzig, winning WWII. Mom  lives in Berdoo, a  soldier’s 18-year old expectant wife. 

She can afford one knife and she buys this one. Maybe she found it at Cuatro Milpas on Mt. Vernon? Maybe she walked into town to Sears or Montgomery Ward? 

It’s the knife I remember from as far back as I remember watching my mother cook, using the cuchillo slicing calabacitas, tomatoes, round steak, papas, nopales. 

And barbacoa.

Dad gathers leña enough for a big hot fire in the pit long before first light. The coals are ready at sunrise. 

The meat sits in a tina wrapped in tinfoil, swaddled in a bedsheet, burlap sacks, and banana leaves. 

Dad lowers the tina into the hole using precarious rebar hooks then covers the pit with layers of sheet metal and sealing it all with a layer of dirt.

At four or five in the afternoon, Mom declares it’s time. 

Gente have been singing and laughing, reminiscing, snacking on preliminary food. Tacos of someone’s fabulous frijoles, kids emptying a KFC bucket, there’s a taste test of competing potato salads. This chile is really picoso! Is there more? Stella rattles off her recipe but it’s all in technique, no one makes chile like Stella.

Dad scrapes away the dirt, wisps of escaping steam carry aroma. Stand back, Dad advises, prying away the sheet metal releasing a steamy cloud of deliciousness. The tina tilts precariously, it's hot unsteadying work, leaning over that pit, hauling up a tina awash in red swirling jugo. Two men balance the tina at the ends of those rebar hooks, meat juices sloshing into sizzling ash as the tina tips. Ultimately, the tina goes up and out and onto the wheelbarrow.

Mom approaches the exposed chunk of meat. She thrusts the length of the blade into the unresisting moist tender meat--as it should. She twists the handle and extracts the blade, a sliver of beef sticking to its length. 

Mom’s fingers bring the first bite to her mouth. A sniff, a nod, a bite, a satisfied smile. Her knife carves a layer of carne into taco-size slices and chunks for the first servings. Diners will cut off their own after the top layer's eaten.

When I find the knife its stainless steel length bears scars from many an off-angled filing. It's not a sharp edge. I take Mom's knife to the sharpener guy in Altadena who restores the edge to paper-shredding precision and oils the handle. 

Of all the stuff I did not lose in the Eaton fire, mira nomás, I still have my Mom’s knife.