Can’t take my mind off my crockpot creation.
Gastronomic patience. Expecting to cook and cool.
And eat. Glued to the scent of a recipe.
Sensation. Enjoyment in a word.
Yesterday. Thanksgiving’s trip.
Concluded family matters.
Babcia treading kitchen linoleum.
In darkness. Her skidding slippers sounded.
Lonely. And her cookbook collection. Rearranged.
My thoughts. A new library of culinary habits.
Never tried once until soup.
Think. Thank. Thunk.
On the long flight home.
A lentil. Craving purposed my mind.
Why not? Stew it over while writing.
Half past morning. My favorite shop of coffee.
Googled ingredients. For a better batch than one.
Found leaving home.
In a crumbling copy. Laurel’s Kitchen.
Sadly for something. Thinner than thick.
Dinner was a bowl of this.
Would I return?
Again. Until. Full.
I wrote this back in December, just after returning from a Thanksgiving trip to visit my mom, my sister, and my sister’s family.