Having moved to the south
with our own predilections,
my daughter was doomed. 
By two, responded fettucini alfredo
when asked her favorite food.  

As peers discussed beloved chips,
she was lost.  Same, during the bible story
game introduced at a birthday party.
When they said grace at preschool
she insisted the first three syllables
were not God is Great, but Honest Gray,
which we felt was a sweet interpretation.  

At home, it was with affection
she renamed nightly dishes  –
warm mush, soggy lettuce salad,
and following a kitchen mishap,
upside-down-oven-lid-surprise.   

Now in her forties, she is organized
and wise. Surely more sophisticated
than I, cooking from directions
on her laptop dictated by culinary artists
foreign to me.  Sometimes, as the years
go by, I can’t help but wonder:
Will any of the stained and marked-up
recipes amassed from my lifetime
in the kitchen find a place in  hers?