Sear, Simmer, Stew
Try new spices.
Cook with anise, fennel, cardamom.
Cook your mother’s
sweet and sour cabbage soup
on cold, bone-chilling days.
Cook what your mother
never heard of. Innovate!
Dream up something new and keep learning.
Try a chickpea and sweet potato curry.
Jot down recipes when traveling.
Prepare drunken noodles from Thailand,
paella from Spain,
cassoulet from France.
Forget fat free.
Measure or don’t measure; baste, blanch,
caramelize, clarify, dredge, drizzle, fricassee.
Go camping.
Rustle up chili with beans
over an open fire.
Cook every day
or cook when the mood strikes.
Cook with your sister.
Open the wine. Tell stories,
Weep with laughter.
Chicken Cacciatore with Hunter Sauce
The woman slings bags of groceries
along a scrubbed tile counter
glances at the kitchen clock.
She recalls her mother
bemoaning the monotony
the tedium of cooking every night.
She dreamily considers running away
imagines a simple apartment in town
chilled Chablis at a corner café
a light cheese soufflé
rich bowls of slow simmered soup
starched white linen, attentive waiters.
She hears his key in the lock
splashes oil into a pan
chops sweet onion, peppers, mushrooms
minces fresh garlic
adds diced tomatoes, a splash of red
sprinkles of basil, rosemary, parsley.
Fluttering curtains
that frame the open window, grow still
as she scatters dustings of thyme
and acceptance.
Last Supper
When she no longer ate
only sipped water
I chopped one spring onion
until my tears ran free
stirred in bits
of sweet pepper, tomato
and sautéed slowly
a panful of love.
I whisked and fried
one small brown egg
into a golden omelet.
She sat at the table
soothed by the familiar aroma.
I grasped the spoon
and stretched my arm.
Eat little bird
little wren, my sweet
and bite by bite, chewing slowly
she eyed me through narrow slits
relishing at the end of her life
a Spanish omelet, her favorite meal.
Sharon Lask Munson grew up in Detroit, Michigan. She is a retired teacher, poet, old movie enthusiast, lover of road trips, with many published poems, two chapbooks, and two full-length books of poetry. She says many things motivate her to write: a mood, a memory, the smell of cooking, burning leaves, a windy day, rain, fog, something observed or overheard, and of course, imagination. She currently lives and writes in Surprise, Arizona.
Try new spices.
Cook with anise, fennel, cardamom.
Cook your mother’s
sweet and sour cabbage soup
on cold, bone-chilling days.
Cook what your mother
never heard of. Innovate!
Dream up something new and keep learning.
Try a chickpea and sweet potato curry.
Jot down recipes when traveling.
Prepare drunken noodles from Thailand,
paella from Spain,
cassoulet from France.
Forget fat free.
Measure or don’t measure; baste, blanch,
caramelize, clarify, dredge, drizzle, fricassee.
Go camping.
Rustle up chili with beans
over an open fire.
Cook every day
or cook when the mood strikes.
Cook with your sister.
Open the wine. Tell stories,
Weep with laughter.
Chicken Cacciatore with Hunter Sauce
The woman slings bags of groceries
along a scrubbed tile counter
glances at the kitchen clock.
She recalls her mother
bemoaning the monotony
the tedium of cooking every night.
She dreamily considers running away
imagines a simple apartment in town
chilled Chablis at a corner café
a light cheese soufflé
rich bowls of slow simmered soup
starched white linen, attentive waiters.
She hears his key in the lock
splashes oil into a pan
chops sweet onion, peppers, mushrooms
minces fresh garlic
adds diced tomatoes, a splash of red
sprinkles of basil, rosemary, parsley.
Fluttering curtains
that frame the open window, grow still
as she scatters dustings of thyme
and acceptance.
Last Supper
When she no longer ate
only sipped water
I chopped one spring onion
until my tears ran free
stirred in bits
of sweet pepper, tomato
and sautéed slowly
a panful of love.
I whisked and fried
one small brown egg
into a golden omelet.
She sat at the table
soothed by the familiar aroma.
I grasped the spoon
and stretched my arm.
Eat little bird
little wren, my sweet
and bite by bite, chewing slowly
she eyed me through narrow slits
relishing at the end of her life
a Spanish omelet, her favorite meal.
Sharon Lask Munson grew up in Detroit, Michigan. She is a retired teacher, poet, old movie enthusiast, lover of road trips, with many published poems, two chapbooks, and two full-length books of poetry. She says many things motivate her to write: a mood, a memory, the smell of cooking, burning leaves, a windy day, rain, fog, something observed or overheard, and of course, imagination. She currently lives and writes in Surprise, Arizona.