Poems are recipes, recipes are poems.

Who are we to say they aren't?

A friend posts her grandmother’s handwritten note cards under glass, on the wall, in her kitchen. Strawberry rhubarb pie, biscuits, other delectables.

The paper scrap where my sister-in-law scrawled directions for her tante’s cheesecake recipe.

The cobbled together Norwegian cookbook with its riskrem recipe I always wanted to but never have tried. (Try this one if you like.)

The neat print of a childhood friend: the no bake chocolate peanut butter bar from seventh grade home ec class. The one where that cute blond boy mean flirted with her and she didn’t realize it, too, meant he liked her.

The  smells they are in their making. The making.

Emily Dickinson’s cake recipes. 

Simple Fare” by Ronald Johnson.

The poem that is instruction. Try, don’t. Go, make, do.

The sticky-note I scribbled on last week. Is that crabcake?

The ones kept in someone’s head, and lost, locked and jumbled with other, better memories.

The cookbook my own grandmother used, penciled with adjustments for larger, smaller parties. Joy? The Times? Betty?

The ones I haven’t made/up yet. You?


-from the Poetic Asides Poetry Month daily writing prompt