Off paper at 3:04
Darling just be careful around the stove
Flavors can be shared
Put the burnt portions are yours to bear
Your hands aren’t calloused enough to write black Iron
That’s what my grandmother told me after I told her
I’m write about the kitchen I grew up in
Memories of copper bottomed kettles hanging above
Crisps rhythms of chopping, Sizzles of frying,
Gas burners igniting, the sounds of cooking draw
Me like childhood
To the hem of my grandmothers floral night gown
Consumed by the sight of meatballs falling from her wooden spoon
Into a searing pan
I remember wafting back and forth as worked one night
When Tenderly as if pulling lint from a shirt
She plucked a meatball mouth-maddening
And golden from her sizzling pan
Offering it stove hot to my greedy taste buds
I engulfed it
A unique flavor best described as hug of surreal bliss
Interrupted by the encompassing pain of searing pan dripping coating my mouth
Before I could like the grease from my lips I thought I want to do this
For people
Then I asked my grandmother if she could teach me how to cook
She said, child this treat has to stay between us, here in the kitchen,
Or your siblings will get jealous
Since that day I have come to learn,
The best food is served in the kitchen,
Shared like a secret,
An offering of an unsolicited apology
Handled carefully as ripping hot cast Iron
Seasoned by everything that has touched it.
A true epicurean delight is labored over,
A silent unconditional promise to improve
Devoured promptly to acknowledge
food only gets colder.
Doing better next doesn’t fix the past
She Is often hear saying to become a cook you must be burnt 1000 times
Because of her I believe
Preparing an exquisite plate is a parlor trick, best reserved for company
Family and food require no pretences.
to feed house keeping shingles on roves
and fat on rips does not allow you to glaze over mistakes
It forces you flavor meal out of them
And three more after that
To feed a family is to lay all you flaws on the table
watch people grow full on what you Imagined tasting
yet failed to create
Each meatball is best out the pan
Every meal a love of failure
Recently I asked my Grandmother
For her meatball recipe. She laughed like onions falling into a hot pan
Raspy full bodied. And said
Child you were born hungry and unafraid to get burnt,
Don’t worry about recipes
Taste a meatball
And my hand moves towards the stove’s searing pand
