The sun slices the kitchen counter in half,
my laptop screen flickers with the recipe I’m loosely referring to
and its battery is low,
dangerously low–it’s how I like to do Sunday dinner…
On a tightrope,
knowing I may have to rely on my photographic memory at any moment.
I mix and stir and bake.
I chop, chop, chop some more.
Boil chicken in water she says,
I scoff and add ginger, garlic,
cumin, coriander,
bay leaf, peppercorns,
salt, apple cider vinegar.
I may love an all American chicken salad, but inside me spices scream to be added!
The timer dings on repeat
and I multitask the two meals,
pulling breakfast out of the oven,
stirring dinner to mix the ingredients well.
Taste both–
one may need another run, before achieving perfection;
one is just right.
It’s Sunday eve,
a day before a possible snow storm in March–
which makes me worry
about the daffodils and buttercups that have sprouted in my yard–
and I am ready.
An hour and half of prep
filled with memories and satisfaction.
