Made with Love

A poem written while cooking

I am cooking for no one

I peel the garlic and the skin sticks to my fingers and annoys me

I’m cooking for one, and I’m not even hungry

I chop the zucchini. Its skin is deep, dark green like blood would be if blood were green

Its meat is surprisingly pale, a pretty pale green that reminds me of spring

I’m cooking because the chicken needs to be cooked

I don’t remember why I bought the chicken, but I did

I remember how hungry my children always were

Hungry from being so alive

What’s for dinner they would ask, leaning over the pot, straining for a peek

I slice the onion because I have it, and I don’t always keep onions anymore

They go soft before I can use them

If you have onions and garlic and tomatoes, my mother would say, you have a meal

Make something from nothing, we would say, and laugh as we ate the steaming bowls of pasta

Pasta tossed with sweet onions and fragrant garlic and bright tomatoes

Made with love, my children would say when I, in turn, made the dish for them

I’m cooking because it’s Sunday afternoon and it seems like something I should do

I have three large mushrooms, the good ones, not the plain ones

I gently wipe them—not too much water—and slice them

They are firm and plump to my touch

They look like they’ve been toasted to perfection as they fan out across the wooden cutting board

Brown on the outside and moon-shaped white on the inside

I’m cooking for no one

All the people I once cooked for are no longer here

They are off doing all the wonderful, mundane things that life needs doing

They are no longer here in my kitchen or near my kitchen

At the last minute, I cut basil from the plant on my balcony and chop that, too

I’ve discovered I can grow basil on my balcony if I set the plant on the shaded end near the railing

I could never seem to grow it when I had a big backyard

And all the sunshine anyone could hope for

There is no need to call out when the food is ready

The food is getting cold, I might have said, feigning aggravation

There is no setting the table or filling the water glasses

Or watching them scoot eagerly into their chairs

But I am cooking nonetheless