In My Father's Kitchen

IN MY  FATHER’S KITCHEN

By A. S. Maulucci

 

My father’s kitchen, sacred as any temple,

was a place where the gas burners

flamed with a Promethean fire.

Never had a high priest

presided over a sacrifice

with greater reverence than my father,

wrapped in his blood-spattered vestment,

prepared the feast for our Sunday dinner.

My mother was his handmaid

and I, on occasion, his humble acolyte.

 

Earthen bowls, wooden spoons,

pestles and mortars, graters, skewers,

grinding machines operated with a crank

were the simple artifacts of his order,

a fraternity founded on the principles

that no effort would be spared,

no ingredient that wasn’t fresh from the soil

would be granted admission here.

 

Mostly, I stood by and watched.

In my father’s fleshly hands

the razored blade gutted fish and fowl

with a diviner’s ancient skill.

The slimy entrails spilling onto newsprint

held no headlines of the future,

but nothing was discarded

that would enrich tomorrow’s meal.

Whole birds lost their heads and legs,

flesh was removed from clinging tendons

and stubborn bone with artful ease.

 

Seasonings sanctified by age,

smoke from frying pan and oven

spread their incense in every room.

The fragrance of my father’s kitchen

was a thing of wonder from house to house.

 

In my father’s kitchen

food was god’s body.

The love he dared not speak

flowed freely from his fingers

into sultry sauces, dancing pastas, singing loaves.

 

Wrapped around his purpose

like vines around a tree,

my father’s hands and eyes were quick and sure.

I marveled at his sudden splendor:

here the man who plodded through life

with a bloodless determination

strode upon the field with a glory all his own.