COOKING
By Alice Lovelace
the stove where i learned to cook
ruled the house in form and function
designed to rest on majestic claws
her body iron-most common element of earth
her skin, her very cells atomic number 26
bonded earth to star when super novas exploded
forged in the belly of my capitalist state of being.
the fire inside that stove controlled
the surface heat
the cook controlled the temperature
by the opening or closing of the flue
by the amount of wood you fed her
reach in, strike a match to kindling
drag it about for an even burn
my mother taught me this
making fire was a daily process.
the stove where i learned to cook
provided surface enough to cook
and serve family in shifts
that summer we were 27 strong
i was eight as afraid of my mother as that stove
surrendered to her commands
learned to use the palm of my hand as a measuring cup
mastered cakes then cobblers and fried pies
took pride in my hands.
I did battle with hand held weapons
that beat blend stir pound prick
smothered chicken and roasted hen
handmade dumplings and liver
smothered in gravy with blackened onions.
at my mother's side I learned the hard way
to listen for instruction in the sizzle pop steam
that spoke the moment to test rotate turn remove.
before food critics dazzled us in high-def
my worth was judged by my ability
to satisfy the appetite of others.
this is your work, my mother instructed me
cooking is a woman's work
drizzle
drench
a pinch
a dab
a woman's touch.
I married while still in my teens
to a man raised to believe the mantra true
expected my role to be footstool punching bag
sabotaged the joy I found in feeding others.
the foods I cooked corned beef and cabbage
sauerkraut, bratwurst heavy handed meals
for a man who smothered me
i craved liberation-an outlet from
the daily threat of fire.
at times the meals i cooked came laced with poison
maybe sprinkled with ground glass
but always disposed of out of guilt
by a child bride who came to understand
how wicked how complex this world we weave
born of love a bitter seed.
I took myself to task devised a recipe
grew out of love and freed myself
taught my sons to cook and clean
grocery shop and launder clothes.
taught them what the world proclaimed woman's work
was a game of abuse and control
raised men to understand
women are not a problem to be solved
and have no obligation to serve.
taught them to measure
sift knead then bake till brown
this is how we reinvent the world
this is women's work.
a drizzle
a drench
a pinch
a dab
a woman's touch
By Alice Lovelace
the stove where i learned to cook
ruled the house in form and function
designed to rest on majestic claws
her body iron-most common element of earth
her skin, her very cells atomic number 26
bonded earth to star when super novas exploded
forged in the belly of my capitalist state of being.
the fire inside that stove controlled
the surface heat
the cook controlled the temperature
by the opening or closing of the flue
by the amount of wood you fed her
reach in, strike a match to kindling
drag it about for an even burn
my mother taught me this
making fire was a daily process.
the stove where i learned to cook
provided surface enough to cook
and serve family in shifts
that summer we were 27 strong
i was eight as afraid of my mother as that stove
surrendered to her commands
learned to use the palm of my hand as a measuring cup
mastered cakes then cobblers and fried pies
took pride in my hands.
I did battle with hand held weapons
that beat blend stir pound prick
smothered chicken and roasted hen
handmade dumplings and liver
smothered in gravy with blackened onions.
at my mother's side I learned the hard way
to listen for instruction in the sizzle pop steam
that spoke the moment to test rotate turn remove.
before food critics dazzled us in high-def
my worth was judged by my ability
to satisfy the appetite of others.
this is your work, my mother instructed me
cooking is a woman's work
drizzle
drench
a pinch
a dab
a woman's touch.
I married while still in my teens
to a man raised to believe the mantra true
expected my role to be footstool punching bag
sabotaged the joy I found in feeding others.
the foods I cooked corned beef and cabbage
sauerkraut, bratwurst heavy handed meals
for a man who smothered me
i craved liberation-an outlet from
the daily threat of fire.
at times the meals i cooked came laced with poison
maybe sprinkled with ground glass
but always disposed of out of guilt
by a child bride who came to understand
how wicked how complex this world we weave
born of love a bitter seed.
I took myself to task devised a recipe
grew out of love and freed myself
taught my sons to cook and clean
grocery shop and launder clothes.
taught them what the world proclaimed woman's work
was a game of abuse and control
raised men to understand
women are not a problem to be solved
and have no obligation to serve.
taught them to measure
sift knead then bake till brown
this is how we reinvent the world
this is women's work.
a drizzle
a drench
a pinch
a dab
a woman's touch
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