smirks at me in the late afternoon,
knows my years have not diminished her.
As dinner hour approaches she anticipates lamb
simmered in rosemary and red wine,
new potatoes, complemented by the tenderness
of green beans.
She’s always been a burden for me.
My father praised her: Look at how much
my youngest eats.
She summons a stufffed chicken
to dance for my delight.
Prods me to grate garlic and ginger,
to chop broccoli and bok choy.
She’s taught me pleasure found
in the smells and texture of prepping food.
Don’t forget, she reminds me, add sweet
Chinese sausage. She pleads
for plumb potstickers steamed for dipping
in soy sauce and vinegar,
red pepper flakes float just for her
in a small bowl.