She was cooking her signature dish for the family
I wondered if there was magic hidden in the recipe
Because when she was engrossed in shaping the dough
There appeared on her face a beatific glow
She was humming a song in a language I did not recognize
There was a dreamy, faraway look in her eyes..
*
Displaced by war my grandmother had been
As a young girl, unspeakable horrors she had seen
She settled in a new land as a refugee
Her old life became a distant, dark memory
There were few traces left of her past-
But some memories were built to last..
*
Food is the bridge between her past and present
Between the home she lost and the one she created with intent
Whenever she cooks her traditional recipes
She brings to life her fondest memories
She conjures her old world, inviting us in its fold
Food is the medium through which her stories are told
*
Amid the disorientation of being displaced
Her recipes served to ground her in a new place
Her stories are with her recipes intertwined
To learn all about both I am inclined
Passion...unbridled 