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We begin at the beginning: a clove of garlic, too hard-headed
for its own good, combined with two large onions, their first denuding 
revealing fallow gold: the second layer, a pale green puberty,
then, the heartless blade of the knife slices into the virginal white 
purity of a cumulus cloud, which the shape-shifter processor
reduces to odiferous pearly drifts, destined tor the fry pan's
oil of olive from sunny Southern hillsides.  This bounty blends
with the underpraised, but indispensable tomato, staple
in the kitchens of Italy and Spain, then Crimini mushrooms,
sliced within an inch of their lives and browned in a skillet to bring
odor of earthiness to this angelic mix.  Six buttery ovals
afloat in their embryonic bath offer elixir of egg to the whir
of the beaters.  With infusion of feta, and one of mozzarella, it
marries with the mushrooms, and in lieu of vestal virgins, lies down
with the pasta.  We go now to oven.  Heat does its homage, then
with souls of the missing, we come to table, a chair placed
for Neil: napkin, plate, and fork, until he welcomes us
Home.  Hosts us once more.

        for  Neil Irvin Gray, 1918-2014

Copyright © | Year Posted 2016

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