Instead of jewels, I gather gooseberries—
the taste of jade. Or mince the flesh of tomatillos
to moisten them with fresh lime, coarse salt,
and virgin oil. Note to self: Take notice.
At my birth, tickling my ear with her gorgeous finger,
she said I will never forget you. Cherries, grapes,
eggs, we were born from imagination.
A recipe holds the future. A bit of my mother’s
knuckle grated into the latkes we made together.
I bury the cleaver in the carving board
to forget that she had to die one day.
We laughed and sucked the mangoes
dry over the sink, the cabbage shrinking
in the dish as I cradle her face
between my hands.
Beneath the lavender in the window box
I find dead birds, such perfume in
loneliness, the holiness of that place
And so many mouths to feed—
Now the clinking of an ice-cold kitchen—
the room exhales its sheer white curtains
Walls, the color of custard peel away.
Paint, potato, skin. One lives a full life
to tell a simple story.
I slit the onion, and watch it weep.
Rozanne Gold, an award-winning chef, food writer, journalist, end-of-life doula, and a Jungian psychoanalyst in training, cares deeply about what it means to nourish. Poet Annie Finch called her “a geographer of women’s souls.” A fixture on New York City’s food scene since 1978 when she was first chef to Mayor Ed Koch, Rozanne is a four-time winner of the James Beard Award and the author of thirteen acclaimed cookbooks. She has written for the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, Bon Appetit, among others, and was a finalist of the 2020 Sappho Poetry Prize (judge: Victoria Chang). She has an MFA from the New School where she taught “The Language of Food” and is a Board Member of Brooklyn Poets. Her chapbook Mother Sauce was recently published by Dancing Girl Press. (www.rozannegold.com)
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