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.   c2000 by Jennifer Lagier