When my grandfather –
the son of the crazy, seafaring Welshman –
said he needed a pick-me-up,
he meant Scotch.
But on a long North Carolina afternoon
in the summer,
the tall glasses came out,
and it was tonic.
Bitter. Better with lime and gin.
The fathers, all the fathers,
gather when I cook,
while I stir the pasta sauce,
and the ice melts in my glass.
Olives, black and oily,
a handful of capers,
garlic.
Secret anchovies.
Salty. So salty.
Chopped and warmed in a pan
with just enough olive oil and sweet tomatoes.
Tongue puckers at the taste,
and wants more.
{ 5 comments… read them below or add one }
Lovely.
Hi Beth, What a lovely poem. You write in a very descriptive way that paints a story for the reader. Father’s Day is in September here. I will look in again to see and enjoy your next piece.
Thank-you for the opportunity to share your thoughts.
Kind regards
Sandra
I Liked it very much…. You had seafaring Welsh ancestors and I had coal mining ones.. All great people werent they?
Ellen, I’m glad you liked the poem. Thank you very much for reading and commenting.
Sandra, thank you so much for looking in and commenting. I think you might need a prize for being the reader who lives furthest away from Pine Meadow Pond! I’m most appreciative of your compliments, and I’m glad you liked the poem.
Tom, I took the liberty of moving your comment over from Notes from the Pond. I’m happy you liked the poem! Ah, those Welsh ancestors. Several things seem clear about them: they worked long and hard, they seem to have possessed quantities of perseverance, and, without them, we likely wouldn’t be here.
This poem makes me want to love cooking, which I do on days like the one you describe, warm and laughing. Wonderful. Simply so.