Hearth Song

If you can read, you can cook:
my mothers’ motto from the day
I learned to crack an egg on the rim
of a bowl and separate the whites
from yolks. Powders to leaven and sift,
oils to ease; sugar to make sweet, salt
to temper all with a trace of tears—
Cake for the kitchen gods; but for you,
burnt crust at the bottom of the pan
to remind the greedy mouth
of the world’s tough hide
and bitter rind.


In response to Via Negativa: Short order cook.

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