arborio
in all the years we spent together you never understood that food was art,
love and kindness. not just fuel, a paste of flour and water shovelled hastily
inwards, enough to drag you through the ashes of another day and no more.
the humble risotto vexed you the most, snarling and clucking into the pan as i
slowly ladled the hot, homemade stock onto the glistening grains of arborio rice,
not just cooking them but tickling, fondling, caressing until creamy and submissive.
you always said i loved my copper pans more than i loved you
well my princess mi confesso. the pans never scream when i place them on the fire
why don’t you eat your bread and butter while i fry up the moon and stars.
Laura Taylor
Thu 5th May 2016 11:26
Love times a million.
I love to cook. For me, it's alchemy, therapy, and all the food I make has love as an ingredient. This is a perfect poem for me. I couldn't boil an egg when I left home at 18, but I taught myself, over long years, and it's a skill that I am very proud of. I wake up mulling over what is in my cupboards, what my body fancies (it will tell you what it wants to eat if you treat it well and listen to it), what else I may need to buy to make this thing that will make us feel so good.
Sorry for epic reply. Love this poem though :D