Fourteen.
And mother’s sadness can fill an ocean,
You take a pan, heat it up; put a little butter in it,
Cut the bell pepper in strips, it’s okay it does not need
To be perfect, you don’t have to be perfect either,
Two plates,maybe more depending on who’s home.
When the pan is hot enough you put the white fish
In |Your father’s worry can almost jump from his frown| Don’t forget to include a starch of sorts;
Mumble a prayer to the God you force to believe in
Appreciate the little moments, there may be not be
More, ignore how the knives sometimes whisper.
Twenty three.
Fill the pot with water and pretend that you are patient enough to wait for it to boil, put an egg on,
This is where I tell you about a story of two kids playing house but it’s not my story to tell anymore,
What’s permanence in a universe that’s a ticking time bomb; anyway ? Boil some hotdogs, open the ramen packet, the next instruction is important, try not to eat it from the pot. You always felt too much but never enough, poetry danced in the tip of the tongue with more ease.
Thirty tree,
Wake up early, take the assorted pieces of turkey that you bought from the grocery store; smother them in garlic paste and sofrito, preheat the oven.
The kitchen smells like the arroz con gandules your mom made earlier that day, Thanksgiving always feels like love, say another prayer to the God you no longer believe in, Papi looks so proud. There’s some cider in the fridge even tough you are mostly sober these days; the autumnal cold breeze tells you that it may be an unforgiving winter. Low and slow the turkey goes in the oven, taking time; like some of the best things in life.
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On how I don’t know how to cook for one - Francisco J “Extasis” Quintana
