Today I’m cooking for a Teacher Appreciation Dinner at church and I’m making fresh pasta (report and recipes tomorrow), which brings me to pass on another poem shared with me by another friend. She found it through the Writer’s Almanac. The poet is Kate Scott, from her book Stitches.
In the yellow kitchen her pink hands
play with creamy dough. Squares of sun frame
things that shine; spoons, cups, hair.
She sits the fat belly on the table.
She pokes it with one finger, it dimples.
Stroked with flour, her rolling pin
works roundness to flatness,
teases out a thin cream sheet.
She picks up the sheet with a nimble pinch,
feeds it into the teeth of the steel machine.
She turns the handle, smiling at me
Though I know she is tired, not very happy.
She hangs the frail strips on chairs, on doors.
As the dampness lifts they start to flutter.
She hangs them lightly over her arm, padding to the stove.
She boils water, opens wine, puts vegetable in pots.
Lights click. Smells blossom.
Everything feels suddenly invited.
Dinner is at 7:00 in the Parish Hall. We’ll save you a seat.