Morning Poem -

The Main Ingredient is Love

I made a chicken pot pie yesterday,

inspired by my sister-in-law, Jan,

to put a little extra effort into cooking,

intention that had slipped.

I roasted chicken breasts dipped in cream and rubbed with oil,

blanched carrots, sautéed onions,  and made a sauce

rich with butter, flour, and broth.

“Add freshly grated nutmeg,” she said, “and white pepper.”

I no longer provision with white pepper so dashed in some Tabasco sauce,

remembering how my mother would daringly add a dash or two

to meat loaf, with great warnings about the power, the fire.

That was the Midwest before salsas and exotic chilies circled the world.

I made a crust from scratch, butter, flour, salt, and water to hold,

and rolled it out, and placed it in the pan,

filled the pan with the mixture of broth, chicken, carrots, and peas,

and brushed cream on the top crust, making first a C, then, a circle, then,

more dainty cuts. 

That pie baked, in celebration of the lunar eclipse, round at first,

then, decreasing and shrinking,

transferred to our stomachs,

where the heat of presence,

lit the night.