Cinnamon, chicken, couscous, chickpeas, raisins.
Steam greets your face. First warmth, then heat.
An aura–rich of mixed flavors.

My earliest memory of this dish may be from age seven.
At home, my father cooked. My mother did everything else.
Couscous at lunch is a comfort, a trip into memory.

Cabbage stands high like a mountain guarding its people.
The round head cut into four, served in triumph.
Zucchini, the green, elongated tongue of many love affairs.

It touches your lips with careful heat, tightens the throat.
The heat is locked inside with passion like a jailer
watching over a ruthless criminal.

Carrots beg to differ–an orange opposition. They accentuate,
add color. Turmeric. Salt. Pepper and twice the ginger.
The secret ingredient is not my father’s gifted hands,

nor his lucky touch in delivering flavor. It is olive oil,
which turns the ordinary into a giant by lending character.
Thirty-five years later, I stand in the kitchen recalling

a ritual I watched almost every week in winter. As a father,
I am tormented by a heavy legacy, eager to please my son,
my guests. I fill the neighborhood with a magical smell

that makes even the most disciplined stomach roar.
My son will still feast on couscous for a while. Then dismiss it
for years, only to return to it with a longing urgency.

Maybe with intellect to support his quest. On a good day of health,
fresh mood, rain, and to celebrate I will satisfy his request.
I hope he remembers his mother preferred hers with tomatoes,

potatoes, pumpkin, and swore her favorite was served
with fish instead. He knows the act by heart. A part of his past.
The joy of preparing and serving couscous.

I bet he would happily step into my role preparing the heavenly dish.