By Joanne Jagoda
her kitchen, her kingdom
she, a conjurer of magical offerings
from an ancient O’Keefe and Merritt
just one smallish oven
a clock that read 12:30
never shedding her European roots
her repertoire solid, good food
I, an interloper
spoiled first- generation over-achiever
rarely offering to help
attempting disastrous half-hearted cooking forays
but it was really OK with her
school was priority to our immigrant parents
but I’ll forever regret I didn’t watch
when she made her roasts
heavenly smells of braised meat filling the house
and I didn’t observe
when she baked her masterpieces
apfel kuchen redolent with cinnamon
swollen yeast doughs like big stomachs
patted down then smothered with cut Italian plums
but thankfully I gleaned
what was important
from the little things she did
like paprika dusted carefully
hand-chopped parsley garnish
her presentations flawless
and when she made lunch for Mr. Cooper,
a crusty handyman in worn denim overalls
I learned what it meant
to be gracious and hospitable
to anyone who came to our house
a glass of Manischewitz, Campbell’s Vegetarian Vegetable soup simmering
thick egg salad with mayo and French’s on challah
a generous slice of her marble pound cake
arranged on a cut-glass plate
those precious lessons I never forgot.
Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash
Joanne Jagoda 