Monday, May 31, 2010

Cutting Board

The pork chops sizzle angrily

in the pan as they try to spit

hopping grease into my eyes,

watching my hands move

intently over the stove,

I am reminded how this used

to take presence of mind to

mind the meat,

I had a great teacher.


Mercilessly, memories come

unbidden of my mother in

our cramped kitchen,

the vision of culinary

expertise as she hunched, workmanlike

over many meals,

her zeal inspired by our shared hunger

furrowed in her brow

as she between pinches of adobo

and stirring gurgling rice pots

would turn a smile at me and say,

I don’t feel like cooking tonight

take over for me, son!


We’d laugh as I continued to

watch her constantly moving hands

whirring over the gas ranges,

the contents of the bubbling bowls

mystifying in how they became dinner,

stirred, sazoned, prodded into place

with an expert fork.

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