Overripe tomatoes on the precipice a wooden chopping board
Peeled, waiting to be diced, tiny bitty cubed?
Or smushed, a pulpy juicy slush?
Waiting, voiceless, choiceless.
Pale reddish in hue, bits of grayish white pock a pack of minced
Once hale and hearty, grazing greens beyond the windowed walls
Ready for pot, or skillet, or pan,
Crackling fat gushing salivating aroma.
Solid but brittle egg yolked durum in plastic opened one end
Fettuccine? Tagliatelle? Or plain Spaghetti?
Poached, boiled cooked El Dente,
So exotic Oh Mama Mia goes the cook
Mini shrubs on the kitchen top emitting a minty balsamic scent so sweet
Distant cousins to the bottled shreds
Italian herbs, American sourced
The end user a cook in a distant land
A place somewhere where snow is but fluffy, clotted cotton
Melting never, never minding hot, sweltering heat
An afternoon that last and last from the peeking of daybreak
Saying goodbye later at the slip of dawn
The coming together, a mixing so tender
Minced, diced, cubed, shredded, tied in an elegant promenade
The slightest touch, a salty intrusion so sparse
Seared stir fry, sizzled sauté, frizzling fried
A final heave ho to the mixing bowl so deep
Meal so handy, ingredients so plenty
Thus with a soft "In the name of Allah"
Buon Appetito then…