I have to admit that Pudding House creeps me out. Not only do I dislike the look and feel of Pudding House publications, but most of what they print–even if it’s from a writer of interest–suffers somehow. I have nothing personal against the editor of Pudding House. I saw her once from a distance at a reading at the University of Ohio and yes–I could imagine that she took great pleasure in all things involving pudding. However, she looked pretty glum that day so I didn’t take the long walk across the room to say hello. Instead, I tried to imagine various incarnations of pudding–Christmas pudding, chocolate pudding from Belgium, pudding and pie, etc.–to evoke a cheerful chain of associations connected with the name, but I could not escape the darkness swimming before my eyes. I think it’s just the name that doesn’t sit right with me (what does gloppy pudding have to do with literature, let alone a house with stone foundations and the like?)–and the studied irony–of calling someone’s scrappily done collection a “Greatest Hits”–like a compilation CD of Tom Jones and the Beegees one picks up from the bargain bin at K-Mart. So when John Bennet’s Firestorm arrived in the post, I immediately recoiled. That is–until my nostrils caught the heavy scent of cigarette smoke like the perfume of a Parisian’s billet doux. Somehow Mr. Bennet’s contaminated, nicotine laden, nostril burning, cancer-defying breath neutralized the saccharine of Pudding House and allowed me to browse what I would normally throw in the corner as so much wasted tree.

There are some good ones in this collection, but page 24 makes the experience worthwhile:

Two Takes On The
Native American Dream

1.
Here’s what the Sioux Nation gave to me: a half-breed grandmother
who taught me to read and write by the age of five, byproducts,
really, of a magic world of dream, song and multi-colored chalk
with which we shaped Saturday mornings while the rest of the
house slept. A Catholic nun temporarily banged the writing and
reading back out of me, but she couldn’t touch the song and color.
So you see where my allegiance lies–I had my war paint on before
I did my Vision Quest.

I’m constantly reminded of where I come from. Of all the tribes
Lewis and Clark encountered on their reconnaissance for conquest,
only the Sioux refused to drop down on their knees. To the
whiskey, a chief called Black Cloud said, “If the white father in
Washington loves us so much, why does he give us things that
make us foolish?” Lewis and Clark said: “You haven’t seen the last
of us.”

The second take is not quite as interesting as the first, though it too has its moments.

Go to www.puddinghouse.com for more information.