a kitchen warmed by mother
and grandmother, aunts and cousins
ancient nested mixing bowls
sit waiting on a formica counter
me, on tip toe, peering at lined up canisters
flour, sugar, coffee
(though I never did know if they actually kept the coffee there)
a well-loved grater
entrusted to my young hands
with a stern admonishment to “be careful”
but I never am.
verdigris flesh shredded
into a malachite bowl seems fitting somehow
I listen as mother and grandmother
gossip about adult things
matters too ephemeral for my young mind
my only focus the silken, slick shreds
falling rhythmically into the bowl
Ella of With Real Toads asked us today to write a memory spurred by an image of food. I wrote about helping my mother and my mimere in the kitchen, making one of my favorite things, zucchini bread.
my words are alive 