A Dish for the Ages

Cinnamon, chicken, couscous, chickpeas, and raisins.
Steam greets your face. Warmth at first. Then heat.
Aura–rich of mixed flavors.

My earliest memory of this dish may have been when I was seven.
At home, my father was the cook. My mother did everything else.
Having couscous for lunch is a comfort, down the memory lane.

The cabbage stands high as a mountain protecting its citizens.
The round head is cut into four pieces. Served triumphantly.
Zucchini, the green stretched tongue of many love affairs.

It greets your lips with cautious heat. Makes your throat cringe.
The heat is held inside it with passion like a prison guard
in charge of a ruthless criminal.

Carrots beg to differ. An orange opposition. They accentuate,
add color. Turmeric. Salt. Pepper and double that in ginger.
The mystic ingredient is not my father’s magic hands.

Nor is it his lucky strikes at delivering savor. It is simply olive oil,
which turns any ordinary dish into a giant and adds character.
Thirty five years later, I stand in the kitchen recalling an act

I watched almost weekly every winter. I now am a father
tormented with a heavy legacy. Eager to please my son, guests.
I disturb the neighborhood with a frightening smell

that makes even the most civil stomach roar.
My son will still feast on couscous for a while. Then dismiss it
for many years, and later come back to it with pressing urgency.

Maybe an intellect to support his quest. On a good day of health,
fresh mood, rain, and to celebrate I will satisfy his request.
I wish he would remember his mother likes hers with tomatoes,

Maybe an intellect to support his quest. On a good day of health,
fresh mood, rain, and to celebrate I will satisfy his request.
I wish he would remember his mother likes hers with tomatoes,

potatoes, pumpkin, and she swore her favorite was served
with fish instead. He knows the act by heart. The delight of
preparing and serving couscous. I bet he’d happily play my part.