Patrimonial Recipe
 
I swore never to wear my father’s mask.

Yet I meticulously peel and cut tomatoes.
Crush garlic. Pluck basil bent
low in observance. One
by one. Push them off the plank.
 
Into the fervid blonde of olive oil.  

Salt. Pepper. Dash of sugar.
Then I sit down at the table.
Yell at my children for being children.
Ignore my wife––her voice:  

the steam of boiling water.  

And wait for the perfect consistency.
Al dente. The callous core that weeps 

when overcooked.    

First published in The Baltimore Review, 2005