#13

Missing home, craving warm comfort food, my mother’s meatloaf. Walking through the grocery store, selecting a pound of ground beef. Fresh ground cumin. Eggs. Bread. At home, in the kitchen, text of inquiry to my mother. She replies. A slice of bread broken up into little pieces and soaked in milk. Salt. Pepper. Parsley. There is no parsley. How much cumin? A quarter teaspoon. What temp? 350. Music filling the room, pouring into my ears as beef, eggs, ingredients are kneaded gently by my bare hands, coating hands with slick and meat fragrance. Molded into an unnatural shape. Into the oven. Anticipation, aroma. A taste. One simple fact, communicated through sense, understood in an instant. Not my mother’s hands, not my mother’s meatloaf.