All weight on one leg,
a tired stance,
she stood in the kitchen,
leaned against the counter.
Hands in white flour
up the elbows,
flecks in her long dark hair
and across her chin, forgotten.
Her steel tools laid out like a surgeon.
Her mouth is hard,
her brows are furrowed,
working quickly, deftly,
in the autumn late afternoon
as the dough formed beneath her gaze.
As her shoulders rolled
and fingers, drawing in, pushing out,
she took the collection of plain words
(eggs, milk, yeast, water)
and cast them into one
(bread).
Then the stove opened its mouth;
became a flaming gateway to hell,
and here she strains and sweats,
like the blacksmith who toils and worries
until his craft stands true in battle.
And she smelted aromas of
garlic and olives
and vinegar and lime.
She poured out and cooked off the
basil and butter
and white wine and thyme
until it resembled a loaf of gold.
Where her feet touched the floor,
the flour scattered and danced about,
forged a path for her next step;
making way for the next secret quest
in hallowed transmutation.
And she rose in height and majesty
until Merlin himself, in awe of her cunning
would beg for a taste
only a small bowl
of the simple milk and honey that came from her high table.
And she smelted aromas of
garlic and olives
and vinegar and lime.
Like a goddess, she composed
basil and butter
and white wine and thyme....
..."What's cooking?" he whispered into her ear,
and the spoon in her hand clattered to the floor in shock
as her raw daydream was cast off
like a cloak from a dark queen's shoulders.
"Dinner," she whispered, with a swift kiss
to the husband returned from work.
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Friday, November 9, 2012
the cinnamon toast excursion
I attempted to make cinnamon toast this morning.
It was a favorite amongst my sister and I growing up, in the winter months. The recipe calls for butter melted over bread (in the oven, so the edges of the bread get toasty) and then a sprinkle of brown sugar and cinnamon. By age 8 I had mastered it and have made it a personal tradition to serve it on the first cold day of the year.
Such was today, as I rolled out of bed, still in my work-clothes from last night. Glitter abounded in my unkempt hair and on my face from the Christmas Overstock Decorations that crowd the Craft-store, where I am employed. But no matter. I didn’t care much to clean up or look decent on my day off. I only wanted 2 things: for my pounding hangover headache to go away, and for some cinnamon toast.
I stumbled into my kitchen, found the leftover german rye bread. After a decent lather of butter, I stuck it in the oven, set on broil. The moment I left the kitchen, all trace of remembering my breakfast was lost, and I sat down to compose a new song at the piano. 30 minutes later, I looked up to see my apartment wreathed in smoke and I quickly dashed back into the kitchen to save the charcoal remains of my breakfast from the inferno of the oven.
The blackened slab crumbled the moment I brought it into cooler temperatures. With a heavy sigh, I retrieved a new piece of bread, spread new butter on it, and stuck it back in the oven.
As fate would have it, my pounding headache was driving me to insanity. Too impatient to wait, I downed a couple glasses of water and then sat in front of my computer, briefly picking up my latest studies of graphology and lock-picking. A couple minutes passed and I wandered back to the kitchen, retrieving the beautiful, goldened toast. But with my thoughts still attached to my studies, I neglected to read the labels of the bottles in my spice cabinet.
When I returned to my desk, I found to my dismay that the cinnamon was in fact actually cayenne pepper, and the thick dose of it, coupled with the sugar, was enough to ruin my morning.
Eyes streaming, I deemed myself unfit to be awake, and retired to bed, where I slept off the remainder of my hangover with the sad realization that my 8 year old self was certainly more capable, responsible, and self-sufficient than I am now.
It was a favorite amongst my sister and I growing up, in the winter months. The recipe calls for butter melted over bread (in the oven, so the edges of the bread get toasty) and then a sprinkle of brown sugar and cinnamon. By age 8 I had mastered it and have made it a personal tradition to serve it on the first cold day of the year.
Such was today, as I rolled out of bed, still in my work-clothes from last night. Glitter abounded in my unkempt hair and on my face from the Christmas Overstock Decorations that crowd the Craft-store, where I am employed. But no matter. I didn’t care much to clean up or look decent on my day off. I only wanted 2 things: for my pounding hangover headache to go away, and for some cinnamon toast.
I stumbled into my kitchen, found the leftover german rye bread. After a decent lather of butter, I stuck it in the oven, set on broil. The moment I left the kitchen, all trace of remembering my breakfast was lost, and I sat down to compose a new song at the piano. 30 minutes later, I looked up to see my apartment wreathed in smoke and I quickly dashed back into the kitchen to save the charcoal remains of my breakfast from the inferno of the oven.
The blackened slab crumbled the moment I brought it into cooler temperatures. With a heavy sigh, I retrieved a new piece of bread, spread new butter on it, and stuck it back in the oven.
As fate would have it, my pounding headache was driving me to insanity. Too impatient to wait, I downed a couple glasses of water and then sat in front of my computer, briefly picking up my latest studies of graphology and lock-picking. A couple minutes passed and I wandered back to the kitchen, retrieving the beautiful, goldened toast. But with my thoughts still attached to my studies, I neglected to read the labels of the bottles in my spice cabinet.
When I returned to my desk, I found to my dismay that the cinnamon was in fact actually cayenne pepper, and the thick dose of it, coupled with the sugar, was enough to ruin my morning.
Eyes streaming, I deemed myself unfit to be awake, and retired to bed, where I slept off the remainder of my hangover with the sad realization that my 8 year old self was certainly more capable, responsible, and self-sufficient than I am now.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)