We're coming to the end
of the peas and beans:
they ripened early
in a grand fanfare
so perfectly perfect
crisp and sweet.
My father liked to garden:
our yard was lush with peonies and roses
corn, tomatoes, beans, peas and cucumbers.
He liked to lean down and smell a yellow rose
on his way to weed the rows
He liked to lift a tomato to his nose
and smell its warm ripeness.
My small garden honors him
just as the homemade pasta sauce
I ladle into my mother's bowl honors her.
Is there something you make or do
that owes its origins to your parents?
xx
Strawberries bring my father back to me. I remember his excitement about baskets of strawberries in the spring each time I am picking, slicing, or preparing them.
ReplyDeleteYour poem speaks such love. Thanks for sharing the beauty of your family story.
Gardening, yes that. And making long simmering beef and chicken broths that form the base of all my tasty soups. Every time I make them, I think of my mom and the good kitchen smells her bone broths made.
ReplyDeleteDe très jolis mots qui me ramènent à mon enfance dans la maison de mes grand-parents... Mon grand-père avait un si beau jardin...
ReplyDeleteGros bisous.
Some ways to cook, some ways to talk, some special words used; And the perfume of my grand-mother..
ReplyDeleteWe carry on these traditions and their symbolism to honor. My problem: what to keep; what to throw?
ReplyDeletelove this poem. still thinking about your question.
ReplyDeletei have a glass dish on my dresser that holds a beetle brooch and a rock shaped like a heart. these things remind me of my mother.
ReplyDeleteGrandma Thompson's pickled beets. Beautiful to look at and tantalizing to the tongue. Anytime I see beets I think about how much I loved to visit my grandma in Missouri and eat her pickled beets.
ReplyDeleteMerci de ton commentaire chez moi. Le survol de ton blog me laisse voir que tu as bien d'autres talents que moi! Savoir écrire n'est pas donné à tout le monde! Bonne fin de semaine.
ReplyDelete