Cooking with the Champ

A long, viney philodendron
hangs above the sink,
drinking in the kitchen light.
It is surrounded by cabinets
and spice racks full of little glass jars
from places I may never see.

Cardamom.
Coriander.
Saffron.

Names that sound like poems
waiting to be told.

There was a time
I didn’t think about flavor.
I thought about hunger.
I thought about making it through
another night.
Food became the enemy.
It fucked with the buzz.

I learned the timing
of banquet halls and dumpsters,
knowing when they would throw
the food away.
Knowing at nine o’clock
it was still warm.
Knowing a meal was a meal.

Now I stand in my kitchen.
I’ve memorized recipes
from around the world.
Two of my three cats
join me on the counter,
watching with green and golden eyes
of curiosity,
hoping maybe turkey or chicken
is involved in this dish.

I open the jars,
smelling the earth
and the history
inside a handful of spice.
Sometimes I break out a cookbook,
then change it.
A little more heat.
A little more Ethiopian flair.
It has to have my voice,
my texture.

Young men become older men,
and the mercy of wisdom
is what I value now.

Once,
I was grateful just to eat,
or have some booze
to ease the shakes.

Now I get to create.

The same hands
that searched for scraps
now slice ginger and garlic
thin as a flea,
and build something beautiful
from a savory afternoon.