USA

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Culinary Progression

As a child
I meticulously followed
mother's instructions,
browned stew meat as directed,
sautéed uniform slices of carrots.

At nineteen,
I threw a greasy meatloaf
at my hard-headed husband,
watched shiny fat streak white walls,
felt satisfaction in the pit of my stomach.

Later, while birthing poetry,
I cremated risotto,
forgot the pressure cooker,
allowed polenta to explode,
drip from ceiling and cupboards.

In my furious thirties
as a recycled single,
I nourished my lonely soul,
wept through hungry nights
nibbled peaches and berries.

Now, I plan elaborate banquets,
knead silky dough,
dice fragrant garlic,
caress the white flesh
of fresh oyster mushrooms.

At 50, I've finally learned
how to create a scrumptious feast,
carve lean poems from juicy life,
feed the people
who matter.

Gastronomical Archive

Mother uses her black cookbook
with a broken spine
as a portable file
for historical treasure.

Here cioppino recipes
cohabitate with obituaries,
expired coupons and cards
for religious novenas.

When I die, she says,
I give my jewelry
all to your sister.
But for you,
I have saved the very best.

Between Betty Crocker's
scorned printed pages,
my inheritance nestles,
yellowed instructions
written with a leaky pen,
on Sunday offering envelopes.

Secrets reside inside
this bulging cover
bound with rubber bands,
a hidden, tantalizing feast
of delectable pleasures.

© Copyright, 2000, Jennifer Lagier.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.