The Secret Poetry of “The Stranger Things Cookbook”
Recipes, and villanelles and odes.
Earlier this month, the Official Stranger Things cookbook, which I wrote, came out to coincide with the end of the Netflix series. It contains 60 or so recipes from each of the five seasons, or chapters, spanning the years 1982 to 1987. I’m proud of the book. It’s one of the few cookbooks of which I am the sole author. I’m very proud of the Dad jokes I worked in there. Nine Flayer Dip? Demogorgonzola Cheese Balls? Cranberry and Blood Orange Upside Down Cake? Induct me into the Bad Pun Hall of Fame, now! And I’m very proud of the recipes, developed by the extraordinarily talented Susan Vu.
But making the cookbook was a very long journey and some of my favorite bits were left out. When I was first contacted to work on the book by PRH back in the summer of 2021, the world was eagerly awaiting Chapter Three of the show. Stranger Things was, obviously, already a colossal hit but it wasn’t yet the monocultural behemoth it is today. There was a little bit of looseness to the licensing universe surrounding the property.
Immediately I did too much. I devised a conceit that, in addition to the cosmic meddling that had unleashed the Demogorgon, Hawkins National Laboratory was also executing various sociological studies on Hawkins residents to study, among other things, gender, labor and food. Taken together these studies would paint a holistic of the town. The cookbook itself was the work of a certain Dr. Savarin — ugh, I know — and was pieced together from various primary documents scavaged, A,J. Weberman-style, from the houses of Hawkins’ denizens: the Sinclairs, the Byers, the Wheelers, the Hendersons, Hopper, and various ancillary characters. I went deep. From a solitary Castroville Artichoke Festival t-shirt, I extrapolated an entire backstory for Dustin. He and his mother — loosely based for some reason on 1960s folk singer Karen Dalton — traveled the country going to food festivals. (I just loved the idea that Dalton didn’t disappear. She just moved to Hawkins.) His recipes were the postcards he sent back home. From a pair of binoculars worn around his neck, I built a backstory for the Sinclairs that loosely followed the Great Migration out of Louisiana to Indiana. Documents like a program from the AME Church and letters to and from New Orleans — many bemoaning the reality of being the sole Black family in Hawkins — formed the headnotes for their recipes. I invented mom drama between Joyce Byers, Karen Wheeler and Mrs. Henderson, told exclusively through passive aggressive recipe cards.
But the section of which I was most proud was the annual poetry and cookie swap at the Hawkins Police Department. (Ms. Schaebal was, by the way, my first grade teacher.) From the book:
Every year. Florence “Flo” Schaebal, who spent the bulk of her career as an English teacher at Hawkins Middle School, organizes a baked goods and poetry exchange at the Hawkins Police Department since 1982. Her aim is to foster both a festive spirit and a love for poetry among the staff. Each year a winner is named and given a $75 gift certificate to Enzo’s.
Each member of the police department swapped both recipes and poems with each other. There were odes and sonnets and villanelles.
So I wrote that book, poured my heart and soul into it. That art spawned art was to me validation of the original genius of Stranger Things. And what’s crazy is Netflix accepted it. I submitted the manuscript in March 2022. It was shot and I was looking at layouts in laid out by May. Then a very bad thing happened. In May, in the run-up to Season 4, a Stranger Things-themed Monopoly game arrived on shelves before the premier of the season contained multiple spoilers. Netflix was, naturally, unhappy and decided to exert much more control over the licensing. This included the cookbook. The project was, sadly, shelved.
Years passed, I sort of moved on. But also I didn’t. Then, out of the blue, my editor reached back out to say the project was starting again, this time stripped of the baroque in world scaffolding. Gone was Dr. Savarin. Gone were my canon-triggering backstories. Gone, alas, was the poetry. In the end, I actually think what was eventually published is much more appropriate than the crazy, dark, intricate work I had originally submitted. But I still mourn the sheer gonzo going-for-it-ness of that first draft. To honor that early effort, I want to share some of the poems from the cookie exchange. Many of these recipes still made it in, in some form, to the final book but the poetry had been lost. Until now.
Sugar Cocoa Cookies Limerick from Officer Callahan
Once there was a cop who was skillful at baking
But y’all only saw the mistakes he was making
As a cop, sure he’s fine
But try his cookies, divine
They’re badges of honor worth taking.
—Officer Callahan
Honey Peanut Butter Blossom from Officer Powell
A good police is a baker, taking
care to follow the letter of the law.
Quick on the draw; cautious with the trigger
You can’t unbeat batter or unring bells,
unwrong vics or repair broken egg shells.
So build your case like you make these cookies
Rookies skip steps, observe the recipes.
Find who did what when. Cite stats and figures.
Measure your words. Will it hold up in quart?
Or is justice denied, teaspoons too short?
I’m good police, a damn fine baker, too
Here take a peanut butter blossom. No, take two:
Sweet precisely because of the rigor.
A shortcut separates perfect from burnt,
miscarriage of justice and just desserts.
—Calvin Powell
An Ode to Youth Lost aka Hopper, Eat Better
O slim and svelte warriors of yore
Who once this uniform bravely wore
Once blessed by spritely forms
Once bore nobly arms in well-defined arms
O dozens of donuts, chocolate glazed,
Noble men their health has been razed
Torsos once taut grow slack in my gaze
Moreso, what’s lost can’t be put on a page
O Calypso, who detained heroes with sweetness
Knew men fall prey to their weakness
New men pray now, too weak not to eat this
You offer cops sweets. Who could resist it?
O Hopper, eat better. Your donuts will kill you.
Your prodigal appetites will still you.
Your habits once mattered and still do.
Your belly is fatted with burgers and burgoo.
O Hopper, you swore to protect and to serve
You save others but your health you’ve deferred
Natural law you’ve failed to observe.
Hold yourself holy. Eat fewer hors d’oeuvres.
O Hopper, lose weight, shave, quit smoking, eat better,
Be the man Diane loved when you first met her,
Now find a woman you love, love her and let her
Take care of you and live your life better.
Jim Hopper’s Crumb Cake
Forgot again. Shit.
Bought an Entenmann’s Crumb Cake
Next year, Flo. Promise
A Corn Dog for Alexei
The final poem, the most formally ambitious, wasn’t from the cookie exchange at all but was written by Murray Bauman for his murdered friend, Alexei, who died at the Fun Fair while awaiting a corn dog.
A corn dog is the American Dream,
a crunchy coat, tender with a snap inside.
If only the fun fair were as it seems.
“No fair! Not fun!” were your final screams.
Slumped over and hungry, “A corn dog!” you cried.
A corn dog is the American Dream.
Your life already was a roller coaster of extremes
But we took you to enjoy the carnival rides.
If only the fun fair were as it seems.
A concession I sought next to the ice cream
A tube of meat encrusted in cornbread then fried
A corn dog is the American Dream.
Last act of courage, you rose up against the regime
But on the grass you sat, cold, snackless, and died
If only the fun fair were as it seems.
And in the darkness the Ferris wheel gleams
Shadows dance in the light of high beams
A corn dog is the American Dream
If only the fun fair were as it seems.
—Murray