Slow-simmered Bolognese
Cousins, let us rescue the Bolognese
of our ancestors before it is reduced
to cans of tomatoes
and fried ground beef.
Let us recover the recipes
from stained cookbooks, the ones
nestled next to flour, the ones
our mothers used.
Let us sleuth out faded ink in margins.
The secret rescue notes exchanged -
mother to daughter, sister to cousin.
Confidence assured by requests for seconds.
Let us resurrect Sunday night dinners at Nona’s.
Recall olive oil releasing the aromatics
of chopped onions she used
to camouflage her real tears.
Cousins, let us create our own legacy stew.
Season lightly with salt,
minced marriages, sliced friendships,
sautéed lovers.
Then, we will let it simmer for hours,
maturing in our rich ragu.
Each spoonful will be
a savory serving of our lives.
Not My Father’s Pasta
“In Sicily we were poor but resourceful!”
Chef Paolo, Taormina, 2023
Chef Paolo was a younger version
of my father with a shiny bald head,
strong arms and intimidating grimace.
He was teaching us how to make pasta.
Gesturing with one hand he plunged the other
into a bag of semolina, tossing a handful on the table.
He caressed the flour, teased it into a swirl,
then gently rained water onto the dry powder.
Like a matchmaker, his broad fingers
coaxed the two strangers into a marriage.
Kneading the resistant grains and warm liquid until
they yielded to his touch.
With a roll and twist,
Fusilli, Bucatini, Orecchiette
spilled from his hands
small, delicious sculptures.
Like his pasta,
we are transformed.
Ready to follow his lead,
we grabbed flour and water.
I dig my fingers into
my raw materials and I am
in my childhood home,
my father beside me.
He chuckles as he wipes flour
off my nose. The ghost-scent
of his Old Spice mingles with
the aroma of fresh basil.
Dad watches me
as I pull and tug on my dough,
a glass of red wine in his hand,
offering “It needs an egg.”
Then he is gone.
Kathryn Santana Goldman has been writing poetry for over 20 years. Her work is published in Conestoga Zen, Fog and Light: San Francisco Through The Eyes Of The Poets Who Live Here, The Marin Poetry Center Anthology 2022, and the online journal, Vistas and Byways. Kathryn hones her craft as a member of two poetry groups, the Le Deux Magots poetry in Napa Valley and the San Francisco Wild Writing Women. She facilitates a guided wellness program, Your Write To Resilience, through the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute (OLLI) – San Francisco State University, and at the Napa Valley Library.
Cousins, let us rescue the Bolognese
of our ancestors before it is reduced
to cans of tomatoes
and fried ground beef.
Let us recover the recipes
from stained cookbooks, the ones
nestled next to flour, the ones
our mothers used.
Let us sleuth out faded ink in margins.
The secret rescue notes exchanged -
mother to daughter, sister to cousin.
Confidence assured by requests for seconds.
Let us resurrect Sunday night dinners at Nona’s.
Recall olive oil releasing the aromatics
of chopped onions she used
to camouflage her real tears.
Cousins, let us create our own legacy stew.
Season lightly with salt,
minced marriages, sliced friendships,
sautéed lovers.
Then, we will let it simmer for hours,
maturing in our rich ragu.
Each spoonful will be
a savory serving of our lives.
Not My Father’s Pasta
“In Sicily we were poor but resourceful!”
Chef Paolo, Taormina, 2023
Chef Paolo was a younger version
of my father with a shiny bald head,
strong arms and intimidating grimace.
He was teaching us how to make pasta.
Gesturing with one hand he plunged the other
into a bag of semolina, tossing a handful on the table.
He caressed the flour, teased it into a swirl,
then gently rained water onto the dry powder.
Like a matchmaker, his broad fingers
coaxed the two strangers into a marriage.
Kneading the resistant grains and warm liquid until
they yielded to his touch.
With a roll and twist,
Fusilli, Bucatini, Orecchiette
spilled from his hands
small, delicious sculptures.
Like his pasta,
we are transformed.
Ready to follow his lead,
we grabbed flour and water.
I dig my fingers into
my raw materials and I am
in my childhood home,
my father beside me.
He chuckles as he wipes flour
off my nose. The ghost-scent
of his Old Spice mingles with
the aroma of fresh basil.
Dad watches me
as I pull and tug on my dough,
a glass of red wine in his hand,
offering “It needs an egg.”
Then he is gone.
Kathryn Santana Goldman has been writing poetry for over 20 years. Her work is published in Conestoga Zen, Fog and Light: San Francisco Through The Eyes Of The Poets Who Live Here, The Marin Poetry Center Anthology 2022, and the online journal, Vistas and Byways. Kathryn hones her craft as a member of two poetry groups, the Le Deux Magots poetry in Napa Valley and the San Francisco Wild Writing Women. She facilitates a guided wellness program, Your Write To Resilience, through the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute (OLLI) – San Francisco State University, and at the Napa Valley Library.
