Tonight I give thanks for

the crook-necked squash, the sliced

sleeve of the string bean, the gauntlet

of new-old recipes.

I give thanks for the fire

of my mother's cast-iron stove,

tactile ways in the dicings of parsnip

and chive, the plumping of butter bean and corn,

succulent white in textures of dumplings....

I give thanks for layered garlic

and onion scents left on my hands,

bisques smooth as peeled pears, vapors

and broths that tempt taste,

waft down space and time to the heart's

hinged spoon, to make a consommé

of deepest winter.

We want to hear, did we miss an angle we should have covered? Should we come back to this topic? Or just give us a rating for this story. We want to hear from you.