at the cutting board i am reaching
flour clinging to wrists puncturing
the damp round of skin and soft pouches
of rain and sun, yielding to pink thumbs
brushing against the tall whipping
cords of wheat where my first sister
swung her scythe at harvest.
palms breaking into the winter when
my first grandmother molded a round
of dough and fired it into gold.
At my wedding, my grandmother gave me her rolling pin that she received for her wedding. This is not because she has a penchant for cooking — she jokes that she only turns on her oven to heat her apartment. When she gave the pin during her toast, she said she hoped it would feel more use and love in my kitchen.
However, until recently, I was not much of a cook. I love food but was always unsure of myself. But I began to teach myself, and along with my abiding kitchen guru Deb Perelman, I have begun to tackle things from scratch.
Tonight was pot pies and the crust making was my poem.
In my journey with cooking and family, kneading dough helps me uncover things and brings a sweet contentment. There is something innate and instinctive and generational in the work.
There is an essay in here somewhere. I think I will explore this poem further in a prose form.