Those Days of Excitement

When I was young and in the kitchen, I barely reached the stove—
     yet knew the soothing warmth of heat, knew when and how
to ask my mother what to do with pots, their lids, those bulky pans.

Days passed, perhaps even weeks or years and I’d finally learned
     the basics— that special mix of garlic salt, an onion powder—
even a “touch” of thyme. My mother had taught me how to shake

these three “singular spices”— “lightly, but straight down”—onto
     a moistened veal fillet. “You do it right before the dredge,” a most
delicate dip, into the purest, the whitest of flour. Finally, came the trace—

“a mother’s soupçon”— of black pepper, coarsely ground. Only then,
     could I see how “a good cook” lowered the petite medallions—
“slowly, steady…”—into a readied frying pan—its mouth round,

wide— awaiting this favorite catch with its swirling mix of bubbling
     oil, and, fragrant, melting ghee. This was, after all, “the perfect
mélange” of flavor—though as I grew, she and even, I, too,

learned about the taste of wine. The stove was quick to edify—
     once we’d spotted a bottle, its contents an inviting shade
of raspberry/blush— at rest and alone, on a nearby shelf. Just

a flash, it was, before the tang of sweet rosé merged in our
     conniving minds—merged, with the sizzle-brown of redolent
veal fillets, their simmer asparkle under one quick swish of

a piquant splash. And the scent of them bubbling “au vin?” As
     beguiling-sweet as Bananas Foster— little toes deep and damp,
in Jamaican rum! Yet it wasn’t ‘til The Days of Excitement—my

seventh grade sleepover in the company of a few girlfriends, our
     favorite boys— that I learned beyond the basics of this meld,
learned about how to add enticing measures to such scant rudiments

of joy—those impatient pleasures! My new friend, Nate had a wise
     and clever mom, who knew how to bake a tempting bread— even
had discerned from whence had come our tasty garlic salt. With a single

smash of the cloves, a playful nod, she minced them, diced them, mixed
     them fine— all into a savory blend of sage/butter and salt— all, to be
so carefully spread onto her own home-made, oven-toasted bread. As if

by magic, our mouths gulped full— wrapped that evening wide to
     memories of delight. And then the stars— our unknown pleasures
of night arrived. Those timeworn veal scallops “au vin,” never would—

never could— be the same, demanding as they did, this whole new
     vocabulary of tastes, so blended as they were with the many facets
of seduction—its yearning, that hungry ache.    There could be no

return to childhood—not now, not with the enticement of this piccata, its
     real garlic and then later, that laughter, one sweet/salty add of capers, the jokes— a
squeeze of lemons and the boys— that sleep-over with desire.