The Soy Smuggler

The first time I had tempeh
a one-eyed guy named Seth cooked it up 
in a gas station parking lot
crouched over a camp stove in the dark, 
sesame oil in the skillet–

I leaned on his car and watched

as he splashed it with tamari,

sensed my hungry gaze,

tucked it into whole-grain bread

and handed it to me, 

adding more slabs to the pan for himself. 

I was unashamed by my neediness and appetite, 

and the hot food was delicious. 

A few hours earlier, we’d passed near a tornado

or it had passed near us–

listening to cassettes, we’d missed storm warnings

on the dashboard radio

but we didn’t know to take shelter

or see anywhere to do that

so we drove on under the eerie green sky,

two East Coast kids crossing the prairie.

We’d met the previous week 

on a rideshare bulletin board in Boulder,

him with a car, me needing a ride–

me with a duffle,

him with a cooler in the trunk

crammed with White Wave tofu and tempeh

because, he said, it was the best

and you couldn’t get it east of Boulder.

I knew nothing of that.

We made it home for the holidays–

Thanksgiving, probably–

taking turns driving through the night

and never again crossed paths on campus

because back then, a rideshare bulletin board was just that–

a place to meet a stranger to drive cross-country together,

sharing stories until we pulled into my parents' driveway--

I handed him some cash for gas,

gave cash for gas, unloaded and waved goodbye–

And if he told me how he lost his eye, I don’t remember

but I'l never forget that sandwich.

10/26/25