I Wish I Could Tell My Father
I’ve solved the problem
with his Pork Chops Foyot.
That you can do chicken,
you just have to slice the fillets
through first. Then dust them
with flour and brown them
in butter. I watch my hands
use the tools he left me,
the lemon juicer I gave him,
and the white casserole dish
with the pale blue rim so old and so
French. A million tiny cracks
in the glaze. I slice the onions thin
on his mandoline. Even my hands
are smaller versions of his.
Last night, our boy stirred
the translucent circles in the pan
with such concentration. The butter
teasing. He didn’t want to miss it.
The stages of caramelization.
The sweetening, so slow.
Then suddenly golden.
