Imagine hunger. And a field of white.
Time to improvise a meal. Start with tofu,
slivered almonds, pineapple and thyme,
scallions, ginger, waking rice from last night’s
meal; throw all into the wok and sizzle.
Inside the cupboard where the spice jars stand
a bit askew, inside the fridge’s near-forgotten
lowest shelf, inside one’s savoriest of notions,
happy accidents may sometimes happen.
(Take down the long long spoon of memory, and stir):
it’s dinnertime, and you, two heralds of invention
by appetite and hope propelled, race down the stairs:
Mom’s making one of her concoctions!
A land of plenty and of detour waiting at your plate;
at times it ended in a skeptic’s wonder as you ate,
but often ended in delight. Although I didn’t always
get it right, I tried, somehow, to make it new.
For you I wish a color-storm of medley, a thing
undreamt, improbable concoctions. (I hope that you
have more of these than I had ever dared.) And when
some unnamed craving grabs you, holds you in its grip –
travel just beyond the treasured recipe, the measuring cup,
to make that unsought perfect dish
drizzling over it
a sauce of light
light (lightest…)
serendip.
Bigstock photo by quintanilla
