The Menu
Never forget your host was a chef. Food has been and still is such a big part of my life. It’s all my mother’s fault and this is a poem for her.
Italian sausage, broccoli, cheddar and shells
I still dream of cabbage leaves draped over ground beef and rice stuffing
The old French chefs called their stoves “the piano”
My mother was a master soloist performing nightly for a family of 4
Linguine with olives, peppers, onions and tomatoes
A calfs liver from the meat market, smoky bacon and love
Mom was a living subscription to Bon Appetite
I stirred the my first bechemel with her at my side
The mother, the son and the mother sauce
The swanky chefs downtown saw Einstein in the mirror
But mom had been braising short ribs since before I could talk
4 gas burners in a Marcus Hook row home
Churning out le Grande cuisine 6 nights a week
And the meatballs, the sausage, the homemade sauce
That still brings me home today
From the kitchen of a blue eyed American woman without a drop of Italian blood in her veins
Stuffed steak and “Lazy” dumplings
Cheeseburgers you had to fight into your mouth
Apple pie and her loving eye
The Menu of my childhood