The Doodle Comes Dehydrated

Once there was flour on an empty benchtop;
a white expanse awaiting the first finger trace.
A thumb pressed a hollow.
An egg broke; its little sun bled into white.
Nobody quite knew what pastiche might become passé.

We kneaded because that was always the way—
spread, push, fold, turn, squeeze and work it through,
until the mess grew elastic beneath our palms,
until shapelessness learned to sway, and hold a shape.

The wet dough clung to our hands.
We tore, dragged, re-floured bare hands and the board.
Some noodles emerged symmetrical and smooth - nice
others fat, crooked, almost contrite!
No matter, let's call it an artisan's imprint!

We did not mind.
We ate them anyway,
promising the recipe we'd do it better next time.

Then, short of time, short of inspiration, facing the blank board
hungry and tired,
we reached for the dried stuff somebody brought home.
Inside—a perfect brick of tangled possibilities,
imagination dehydrated into obedient, perfect shapes—curls and curds.
No flour on the floor.
No eggshells in the bowl.
No scrape-it-off, bin-it, begin-again.
No endless toil, no bother.
No fingerprints at the scene.

Just add water.

The blank canvas filled itself before the kettle boiled:
portraits, poems, songs, sketches, designs—
whole bowls steaming from what once began
as flour spread across a board, a white and bare doodle.

But wait—there's still a creative hand in this somewhere.

We did not grind the grain,
sow the field,
harvest or thresh our own wheat.
Rain had fallen upstream.
Perhaps the vacuum was never empty.
Perhaps the blank was only something we refused to view and imbue.

We gained speed.
We fed hungry open mouths, faster,
with perfect shapes of every kind.
Still our input remained:
less salt,
cooking it al dente,
keep this, lose that, try that again.
Perhaps devotion had simply moved downstream—
into what we did with the dried stuff in the bowl.

Add a little chilli, herbs,
a splash of oil.
Throw away the packet's idea of dehydrated flavour,
bruise some basil between finger and thumb.
We still want to express ourselves
with all the flair and flare,
a devoted home cook can provide to a pasta.

Perhaps the canvas was never blank.
We always borrowed recipes,
stole from glances into other kitchens,
or made it the way our mothers always ever did—
handed down, hand to hand, mouth to mouth
pasta becoming repast!
Memories rolled just thin enough to eat.

Who makes their own pasta anyway?
These days?