Renaissance

CLICK HERE TO HEAR AUTHOR READ

for Annetta

In the beginning we shared a vegetarian pizza

in a corner booth at the bistro  

above the metro station,

split a carafe of house white wine,

and spoke in hushed tones, laughed, 

as the train arrived underground, 

came to a rumbling stop,

and then left to the next the station

with a piercing electric hum

that we felt deep down 

inside.

We ditched restaurants, 

partly out of time, partly out of cost, 

and you started cooking for us

in a practical kitchen that was too small

and getting smaller every year.

We got used to the uneven linoleum floor 

scuffed by the creaky wooden legs 

of our wobbly melamine table, and our high-chair 

with squeaky plastic wheels 

and removable tray. You fried eggs 

and potatoes, boiled noodles -

made pesto, soups and stir-fries,

pureed carrots and peas

in the food processor

that was my anniversary gift.

When the kitchen got bigger, 

like the kids did, you graduated 

to quiches, asparagus, broccoli and mushroom,

you reached backward to master 

your grandmother's sweet and sour meatballs,

your mother's spinach lasagna, and signalling 

your culinary wanderlust for a transcendent sphere, 

you started baking breads:

braided challahs and multi-grains, 

zucchini loaves with walnuts or pecans, 

cornbreads with raisins or blueberries, 

and olive bread with tomatoes, to dip

in exotic spiced oils, 

your ovens wafting heavenly aromas 

making a home that transported the soul.

These days we are more settled,

drink filtered coffee from souvenir mugs

collected over decades,

crunch on crisp homemade cinnamon biscottis

sitting across from one another at the island,

I fill in the Times crossword in pencil 

(ask you for a 'type of cheese 

made with goat's milk'), and we watch

the fruit you lovingly selected 

from the grocer's mound mid-week,

oranges, bananas and pears, ripen 

in the bowl you thrifted for a song

from the Renaissance store.