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