With both my pregnancies I vomited
nearly every day, nauseated by cuisine
I grew to love as an adult: grilled swordfish,
seafood paella, tiramisu, crepes.
Instead, I craved meals from my childhood:
steaming bowls of giblets and rice,
kreplach, knishes and kasha,
mugs of borscht with sour cream,
the Ashkenazi foods of my mother’s youth.
Mom was happy to oblige.
I desired ice cream sundaes topped with hot fudge
and whipped cream (from Friendly’s, Mom’s favorite),
macaroni shells sprinkled with salt, melted margarine
gathered in the crook of the shell.
Bacon, lettuce and tomato club sandwiches
like the ones Mom and I shared in a booth at Brigham’s
after shopping for new school clothes.
Pastina and farina, two dishes she made for me
when I was a fussy toddler.
I lusted after tuna or Italian sub sandwiches—
the ones my Dad brought home to give Mom
a night off from cooking. I dreamt of Chinese food:
egg fu young, egg rolls, bread and butter
on the side, cups of hot tea stirred
with heaping spoonfuls of sugar; my family’s
Sunday afternoon ritual, the TV blaring
news or sports from the other room.
My husband reluctantly brought them all to me.
In the days following Mom’s death I open
my refrigerator. It overflows with leftover ramen,
chicken cacciatore, fancy cheeses and olives.
Each night my husband lovingly cooks
elaborate fare: fresh snapper, tofu, pesto pizza.
But only the simplest chicken soup with lokshen
comes close to quenching my ache.
A lifelong New Englander, Laurie Rosen’s poetry has appeared in The Muddy River Poetry Review; Peregrine; Oddball Magazine; Zig Zag Lit Mag; Gyroscope Review; Wilderness House Literary Review and elsewhere.
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