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