I finally read the food issue of Moss Piglet, and it converged some other thoughts/impulses I’ve had lately. For example, I am kind of obsessed with food memoir and food podcasts. I don’t know why. So I thought I would combine poetry with food and/or recipes. Here’s my first effort. Not sure of the title, but I liked it better than the name of the dish.

That summer a buttery light got into everything.
I was in between jobs.
We bought a new gas grill.

I placed chicken pieces in a large bowl,
plumped up and pale as coddled cream,
thighs stacked like palms.

The baby played on a rug in the great room,
reading a story to herself while nudging
wood blocks around with her peachy feet.

Her father mowed our long sweep of lawn.
The smell of cut grass and dirt lifted on a breeze
through the kitchen window. I snapped

cobs of corn in thirds, and kernels showered
the counter and floor. The boys slept
until noon. They moved around me in the

kitchen smelling like campfire. They overfilled
bowls with Kix(R), which rumbled in a raft
of golden milk. They talked in a code

of friends and girls and sports and elbow
jabs. They watched me microwave butter.
It separated as it melted. They promised

to be home by dinner. They were practicing
to be gone. I had bought a new cookbook
with grilling recipes. The word blackening

spoke to me from another life.
I didn't know about the spices.
Raising children was haphazard business.

I slashed the fleshiest parts of chicken
with a knife, streaming butter around the bowl.
I saved a piece of chicken and corn for the baby.

How the needs of children smoldered.
Where was bonfire? I sprinkled the spices --
cumin, paprika, cayenne, salt, pepper.

That summer was the beginning.
Before the emulsion broke down.
I fed them. I gave them new flavors.

I tossed well to coat evenly.
We laughed around the table.
Our mouths were hot. We fanned

our lips. The crust on the chicken
and corn was smoky and sharp. Our tongues
were on fire. The boys gave it five stars.