Tod I was feeling nostalgic and suddenly remembered a poem I won a prize for in high school when I was 16 about cooking in my Grans kitchen. I’m many ways there’s more me and more fiction in the poem, but the sentiment was real. On the menu Spaghetti Napolitan and Chocolate Brownies.
Standing on the brink of the pine doorway,
Tasting the melody of scents upon the air.
Sweet Basil, Sage, Oregano and tomato.
The alchemy of my grandmothers kitchen.
I creep forward, her back is turned.
In another saucepan,
Chocolate melted mahogany gold and espresso
Watching her whisk the egg whites mechanically.
Then delicately folding batter light as steam.
She turns and smiles, when she sees my creeping hand.
Beckoning me forward, I receive a biscuit,
Then put to work, kneading the dough over and over.
Free range eggs and flour left for an hour.
Silky velvet, elastic after time elapsed.
Trough the machine pouring out golden straw.
Then boiled and Gran adds her secret,
Acidic paste of red, sunshine condensed.
She laughs at a comment I make,
The edges fade ever into haze.
Her scent of roses and sugar refuse to linger.
Yet I still remember her catching my finger,
In her melted chocolate.
Yet her knowledge and passion remain,
The hours devoted, coveted.
Spending time in rewarding alchemy.
Michael English : 2005