Sometimes you don't notice a thing
until you feel the lack
I never felt like a Jew
until I was the only one around
in a small South Carolina town
My speech became a foreign tongue
my holidays unacknowledged
my religion suspect
my food nowhere
Shared memories
shared recipes
shared experiences
vanished like the 'g's on the ends of words
On a visit home they returned
as I opened the front door
Enveloped in thick, fragrant air
a big shiny pot atop the stove
slowly simmering golden heaven
Parting lips anticipated warm luscious liquid kisses
a soupçon of salt
to keep it interesting
and more...
fluffy white clouds succumbed to my spoon
little round angels in heaven's tub
I swallowed the whole show
This was my communion
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| source |
8 comments:
nice....home cooked food...and the feeling of home, that is def like taking communion...and a nice reprieve from being a stranger in a strange land...
I often feel this way when I walk into a home where Russian food has been prepared. And I can smell pelmeni and pirog as I remember it--thank you!
I so want a bowl of your comfort, sounds so heavenly.
I lovd the memories n warmth, you shared ; )
Mmmmm......
Food porn....
(smiles)
This is so beautiful. I can feel how you felt not fitting in your community. I wonder if there is anyone that has not felt that. I could taste your soup as and the joy of being home surrounded by those that love you. Beautiful.
I love the connection between home and the soul food that means home to you........loved this poem, kiddo!
I can feel that watery tongue comin' on!
You perfectly identified the sensation of minority. I particularly like the shared elements, blending into "vanished like the 'g's on the ends of words"
Nicely written.
http://www.kimnelsonwrites.com/2012/05/28/making-jam-with-gram/
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