Listen here! This is my butter song. This is my chocolate song.
Real Irish butter. Real chocolate from the jungles of the heart. This
is my bourbon kale cucumber smoothie song. Acoustic blues.
My
song of remembering grandmother, when nobody ever heard of gluten. "Eat
from the hand of love, child. That is the only law." A time before
commandments.
Whatever fell from the wrinkled branches of Eden,
her hands. Her prune eyes and persimmon cheeks. Dumplings and white
gravy. Lemon maringue. Coconut custard. Cornmeal mush.
Watercress
she picked in the woods by a stream. Dandelion greens from pools of
August sunlight. The past and future melting on a spiral of hotcakes,
each blueberry a wound, a void, a center of the golden Dharma wheel.
I still smell her biscuits soaking up the essence of all created
things. I still taste frozen cream, sticking out of milk bottles at the
back door on a Winter morning.
Listen here. Singing is better
than obedience. This is my song. If you cook with butter, you might not
live as long. But if you don't, you might not live at all.
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