Ode to My Mom Cooking

I watch her cook,

My mother, my mom,

The conductor of the kitchen

As I perch on the (forbidden) counter,

A bird,

Chittering,

Chattering,

Chirping away,

Filling her in on my life.

The butter, as she

Slides

It into the pan,

Sizzles, hisses, snaps,

Then dances with

spins and twirls,

A ballerina on a stovetop stage.

"I need your height,"

She says.

So I slide down to her aid

Before resuming

My perch by

The sink

Where the warmth of her domain

Sinks deep into me

Like the scents

Of the spices she uses,

Garlic, oregano, and thyme.

Her laugh,

When I say something silly,

Common occurrence,

Is the bubble of boiling water.

My mom, at one with the kitchen.

She's been working her magic

All day, the

Mrs. Weasley of my muggle world.

I can tell

Because the butterscotch pie

Sitting so sweetly on the counter,

Already has airy castles

Of white meringue,

Floating on the brown butterscotch

Like her voice around the room.

The music of my mom

Cooking.