In the drumming, misty morning mayhem
of a five-year-old hangover, while yet
under the influence of a performance of rites
as ancient and sacred as Eden’s fruit trees,
 
my first impulse, reptilian brain driven,
is to tempt you with the forked-tongue promise
of a life continued in eternal pleasure, as well as
a never-ending bright side in which to dwell,
 
if, and especially if, you will be so kind as to
descend the stairs, to venture away from this Paradise
into the cold and dark of our kitchen, 
to produce, by the sweat of your ever attractive brow,
 
two slices of whole wheat toast, buttered liberally,
and a warm mug of whatever is on hand,
and perhaps an apple, peeled and cored and sliced.
All of which we will share in bed with him, 
 
the writhing and inescapable fruit of our loins 
who feverishly climbed in at an ungodly hour,
like a serpent, seeking simply some shared warmth 
and perhaps to share some of his best thoughts 
 
on Life and Living, on Knowing and Love.
But don’t expect the five-year-old to share that apple.
Not again...
                        

I am teaching my son,
a teen with acne and a sense
that the world around us
is simultaneously brutal
and confusingly beautiful,
how to make the lasagna 
that I grew up eating.
 
I lay open to him the recipe book
with the splattered notecards
in his grandmother’s careful hand,
on which are preserved
the wisdoms of the ancients,
measured out in teaspoons and cups,
in minutes and degrees.
 
We discuss the difference between
low heat, medium heat, and high heat 
while he burns some sausage and 
leaves some slightly underdone.
I no longer grab his hand
when too close to the heat
because he should burn his fingers
and singe a few knuckle hairs 
like I did under his grandma’s watch
forty years and hundreds of lasagnas ago.
 
I show him how to measure
precisely and without leaving
a mess on the counter.
We always leave a mess anyway.
 
Each time he wanders off script,
suggesting we try this or that,
this being his first time making it,
I reel him gently back in,
point to the Holy Scripture
in the recipe book and urge him
to first learn the basic Truth,
while stuck as he is in unwilling youth,
and then, once he’s mastered these,
he may explore the other sides
of the mysteries of cooking
and of life in general.
 
Of course, each time he turns his back
to chop the onion or to seed the tomatoes,
I carefully throw into the simmering pot 
the secret and sacred-to-me ingredients.
that even my own mother never used,
the spices and flavors of my own life
which my son unknowingly stirs in.
 
When all have been served
he proudly takes credit for the dish,
his attempt at his grandmother’s best,
altered to my liking without his nor her knowing,
his stature having grown with the task.
One day this dish will become fully his,
my secret additions replaced by his.
Until then, it will taste slightly off, 
just like mine always tastes off to Grandma,
and Grandma’s always tastes off to me.