There were a few things that were seemingly too exquisite
For my prepubescent taste buds to comprehend,
Or so It seemed.
Mangos,
Double Dutch Tin Can Powdered Coffee International Delight,
Gouda Cheese-
...French Onion Soup.
All were seemingly so delectable,
I couldn't possibly appreciate their richness,
As in "value", as in
"Hands off, these are moms"
Delicacies
One bite and I would squeal in appreciation,
Completely unaware that these were Moms "Special Treats"
I had a five minute rule when I was a kid.
More like something my mom knew of me,
If you asked me, "Are you hungry?"
And the answer was no,
Surely given five minutes time,
That answer would be different.
You must know-
A roll out
Mom would get out The Mayo, The Tomato, The Onion, The Cheese, The Lettuce, The Pickle,
The Fluffy Rich Wheat Bread, The Pepper, The Mustard, The Knife, all placed stacked piled High, laid out on the Cutting board floor.
Then reach for a plate.
I would sit there bare witness,
Watching the masterpiece unfold.
An event.
Lunch Time
"I had said no"
Claimed I was not hungry.
And I wasn't.
The truth is,
It took a while to craft.
And it was beautiful.
Colorful stacks,
Ingredients carefully placed,
Angled artistically upon each other
A touch of Cucumber?
All of it.
She offered a bite.
IT was exquisite.
And every time-
EVERY time.
I then wanted one.
Dijon mustard,
Ooh so fancy,
Now everything was packed up,
Put away,
I just had one taste,
Just that one of my own,
Was enough to know,
That I wanted more.
She used to say,
There was a secret ingredient.
How could there be?
I had sat in the kitchen,
Time and time again,
I watched her prep
These simplistically majestic feasts.
I bore witness to the dance
Of elements glide in and out cupboard drawers
Routinely laid upon the counter.
A taste upon my lips.
After I had grown to move up and out,
Meal prep still a time for a check in,
A quick hello,
An ingredient inquiry,
Pretty certain I had already known
A narrowed confirmation.
I grew up in the kitchen
Around my mothers Chemistry.
Her apothecary.
Her World.
I miss those calls.
Rarely would she measure.
Personalized Not Perfected
Like her father too before her,
Jolly and German,
With a garden of his own.
He laid the kitchen map
For his daughter one day to surely follow,
My grandmother a master baker,
A Church quarterly cookbook,
And canner extraordinaire
Their child adding finesse
In her own way
Learned to dance about.
Like memories framed
Hanging crooked on the walls,
Recalling oil stained cookbooks,
Creases, corners, cracked
Weathered & worn thin,
Over time, & turning.
I got the box,
My brother got the book
With the Buffalo Bill sticker
Pulled and torn,
Etched deep inside our mind.
Sifted lightly settled memories
Deeply grained paths ride lined inside our gullets.
Ingredients for puddings and cakes,
And breads and quiches,
Stomp cookies and oatmeal,
Yogurt, and pies.
All from scratch.
All with that secretly added ingredient.
A Touch of Love.
There is a picture of me somewhere,
Sitting on the counter as a babe,
And again another still as a toddler crawling clutching-
A bottle,
Clocking in as Sous Chef,
Nearly shaking fists threatening ready to stand all on my own.
I LOVE food.
My brother LOVES food. ...
So much so it's a running joke
(Within the family which extends out to include his college friends)
My Brother would be sitting in the dining hall
Long after the last of his friends had finished scraping and packing their bellies full,
He would sit
Slowly methodically,
Putting it down.
I would love grocery day so much.
STILL do.
Would say it felt like Christmas,
Because of all the magical wonderful options.
A full fridge is a happy heart.
And so during this Pandemic
It has been comforting to cook.
Simplifying lifes terms-
To have the time to prep,
And dance,
To explore.
To feel full - again.
It is game of sorts for me-
I open the fridge
And suss out what materials need to be rotated
Cleaned thru.
It drives me.
Take what you need.
Use what you have.
Eliminate waste.
I have the good fortune of having a wonderfully generous brother
He helps keep my refrigerator stocked during these challenging times.
It helps A LOT.
I am supremely grateful.
And constantly thinking of ways I can be the person who deserves such kindness,
And can in turn contribute to the World
In a way,
Repaying his generosity,
And Goodwill.
His support is a link which binds us forever close.
That full belly mentality,
It really does a lot for peoples spirits.
If only more were as lucky.
Preferring to be an explorer,
Rather than a creature of habit,
The addition of Farmers Market boxes has been fruitful to say the least.
A few extra onions,
And other simple ingredients I had on hand,
With an extra loaf of homemade wheat
waiting to be cracked open, 30 min later. We. Were. In. Business.
I love whipping up recipes. To look inside the fridge and see what I have, what is near expiration, or what is in need to be used up.... On the menu for last night. My first ever...
French Onion Soup
Ha! Take that mom.
Whose Palete is Sophisticated now huh Sister?
Such a cozy hearty connection to my mom.
All the times she would give me, "just a bite"
Have now come full circle
Simple growing, maturing
Curing an ability
A process,
To make my own.
Now that I've crossed the two year mark of her passing.
I really feel as though I am moving into the
*Acceptance*
Phase of grief.
The day is young.
And here I am.
I truly do feel as though,
While treading water thru
The Pandemic, Social Injustice, Political and Environmental Upheaval
In the milieu of sadness, hardship, and paradigm shattering
All these challenges happening simultaneously,
Is actually freeing me up
Aiding along my healing process.
This World right now is a snow globe of Fuckery,
And I for one am glad Mom decided to appreciate her final breath
Recognizing it was time to
Transcend it all,
As a lot of people have.
Mom-Gone
Marlow-Gone
Harper-Gone
Dora Lee-(my therapist)- Gone
And so so many more...
The people I have cried to the most over the years...Gone
And I'm still here.
It's a crazy trajectory having a soul ripped open
Only to discover
The ways in which humans simply
Continue to navigate thru it all.
Efforts pleading to the Heavens
Take away the pain, the hurt, the illness,
To no avail,
Simply having life tick on,
It's own accord,
As it was meant to be.
Pray tho we might,
Smite as we may.
I'm still here.
This certainly is not the life I ever planned for.
I miss my loves like crazy.
But somehow, right now,
It doesn't hurt (maybe?) as much.
I now have to be careful not to get cocky,
Because tomorrows curve could once again knock me to my knees.
I recognize the color turn of a purple bruise to green,
And the skins ability of a tan turned olive,
In spite of the redness in the white of my eyes.
It's been hard to write.
All with too much sadness,
So still,
I will do,
What I continue to do,
Cook by color,
Love my brother,
Practice headspace
Riding clear above the wave,
Charting territories,
I've never known,
Salty cheek spray dashed upon me
Checking, Clearing, Cleaning out my fridge.
Comments