Kathryn Petruccelli
Salting the Soup
If you had lived, as old women, we would spend an afternoon or two
each visit cooking together. You would chop the carrots, your long, beaded
each visit cooking together. You would chop the carrots, your long, beaded
earrings swishing as you leaned over the cutting board. I’d heat the oil
in the pot. It’s not cold outside, but there’s the first hint of chill and we
in the pot. It’s not cold outside, but there’s the first hint of chill and we
were always summer girls. Soup, then. We talk and laugh and I grind
the coriander while you shake your head because why fuss
the coriander while you shake your head because why fuss
when they sell it already ground? I tell you the flavor’s better
this way and you understand I’m right, though you don’t admit it
this way and you understand I’m right, though you don’t admit it
aloud. Even though I’ll never know you as old, I don’t
have a hard time imagining your face, a bit like your mother’s, I think,
have a hard time imagining your face, a bit like your mother’s, I think,
and the gray streaks in your hair suit you. “Wisdom paths” we’ll call them.
You’ll laugh at this, too, snort a little, which will only shore up my resolution
You’ll laugh at this, too, snort a little, which will only shore up my resolution
that, yes, that’s what they are, and our arms bump together—lefty, righty—
as I slice the celery stalks, first lengthwise toward that widening sage-white
as I slice the celery stalks, first lengthwise toward that widening sage-white
slide, then into tiny, ribbed bridges. You ask how much onion. If you weren’t there,
I’d go to my phone to check and recheck the recipe. But since you’re with me,
I’d go to my phone to check and recheck the recipe. But since you’re with me,
I just improvise. You always did make me brave.
That one, I say, pointing to the larger onion and since I’m done
That one, I say, pointing to the larger onion and since I’m done
with the celery, you take over the good knife. At points in this vision, I forget
that we’re old and we appear, as I watch us, like the girls we were—bonded
that we’re old and we appear, as I watch us, like the girls we were—bonded
by abandonment and 80s fashion. Always one and two: Yearbook editor/assistant editor.
Double date to the prom. And now, chef/sous-chef. Hibiscus open generous bowls of bloom,
Double date to the prom. And now, chef/sous-chef. Hibiscus open generous bowls of bloom,
golden at their centers just outside the triple window over the counter. It’s all perfect.
Though once in a while, the person I am now, the one watching, can’t hold back my sadness
Though once in a while, the person I am now, the one watching, can’t hold back my sadness
at our joy, a weight pressing closed my ribs. To pry it off, I breathe in the smell
of soup. It’s really coming along—rich and waiting to be blended.
of soup. It’s really coming along—rich and waiting to be blended.
There should be garlic! I announce suddenly, and you complain about how much
work it is to peel the cloves this late in the process, but
work it is to peel the cloves this late in the process, but
we’re together and everything feels lighter, so I tell you I don’t mind, I’ll
do it and you watch me free them of their sticky skins, impressed. If anything
do it and you watch me free them of their sticky skins, impressed. If anything
remains of our mangled fortunes, let it be this: the creation of something
to nourish. Will it work? you ask. It’s just the kind of thing you’d ask,
to nourish. Will it work? you ask. It’s just the kind of thing you’d ask,
and you mean the soup and I scoff, like I couldn’t be more confident, and say,
Naturally! It’ll be delicious! Hand me the salt! And you do.
Naturally! It’ll be delicious! Hand me the salt! And you do.
We’re in my Massachusetts kitchen, nevermind you were never there, never
will be. And in this way, it’s a big mashup, just like how dreams go. It’s like a dream.
will be. And in this way, it’s a big mashup, just like how dreams go. It’s like a dream.
A workshop leader, tutor, and mom, with roots in spoken word, Kathryn Petruccelli holds an MA in teaching English language learners. Her professional life has included translating “Hotel California” for Hungarian high schoolers and anthologizing poetry by rival gang members. Her work has appeared in places like The Southern Review, The Massachusetts Review, New Ohio Review, Rattle, Poet Lore, and Tinderbox. She can be found on the web at poetroar.com.
