BOUNTY

Over the past several days I have been giving active thought to that for which I am thankful. It is bountiful, so bountiful a tiny sense of shame has accompanied my gratefulness. Searching that 'shame' out, I realized that were I to reduce my bounty by ninety percent I'd still have more to be thankful for then millions around the world. I set out to write a poem about this as I sat drinking chamomile tea at 1:30 in the dark of last night. My struggle was still ongoing when finally I went back to bed, poem still unborn.

As often happens the morning after some inner struggle, a solution came to me and a different poem was born.


This is one of my favorite pictures of my parents, especially of my father holding a kettle as though it were an extension of his arm.

ON MY FATHER'S BIRTHDAY


Were my father still alive
he would be eighty-nine today.
I wonder what
in the long thirty-one years
since he passed,
would have been...
for him...
for us.

I know he'd still be the
Kitchen God of my youth
who could coax exquisite
tastes-smells,
and sheer amount
from the merest ingredients.

White chef's apron tied high
on his portly frame,
his huge brown eyes missing
not a thing
as he surveyed his Kingdom.

A tall, tall man of short stature
who loved long, sleek Lincolns
though once he brought home
a lowly Nash.

A self-trained musician
bending his alto sax
to high jazz
as we kids eagerly sat
on the scratchy, green parlor sofa...
a rapt audience,
sure he was a star...

and he could belt out a song
in his huge baritone
rich with chestnut notes
that at other times
might send us scurrying.

He was a suitcase kind of Dad-
an on-the-road salesman
hawking kettles--
not just any kettles, either
but STAINLESS STEEL
none of that aluminum for food
he'd eat or serve!

He'd be off for a week at a time
sometimes two
demonstrating his wares
in other people's kitchens...
roast beef, braised with very little water
(that was an important component)
to tender perfection in his largest kettle,

in the smallest one, ruby red beets
that he would later demonstrate
left no stain...
potatoes steamed on low heat
little water
certainly not boiled to death.

Sometimes, to my delight,
we might accompany him,
the clean-up-crew of kids.
He had a tiny office front
in Rochester, NY
where we might stay over night
if the 'dinner party' went late-
and in the morning he'd fix us
salami sandwiches,
not just any salami, mind you,
but hard salami sliced so thin
you could see right through it,
on Italian hard rolls
so crusty that flakes broke off
with every bite.
I loved this breakfast
in that tiny space,
relishing the almost naughtiness of it.

Sometimes
cooking in my kitchen,
Iris, earnest and supremely focused,
stirring by my side,
I know he has come through
(he may never have held her nor
felt the aching sweetness of her arms
around his neck)
but he is there in her,
as he has been in me...
cooking on.