Carefully cutting open the casing lengthwise
to fry its filling in my large silver pan,
Sicilian sausage made in Northern California,
not adding any oil yet, just the seasoned meat on its own,
using a wooden spatula to break it down into smaller chunks.
Selecting the softest tomatoes from my hanging fruit basket,
this year’s heirloom varieties grown by a farmer who
tended for them over so many months just
south of Santa Cruz until they reached their peak ripeness,
deep colors and yummy juiciness.
Using another knife, a serrated one this time to
easily cut through their skin, dicing each tomato
first in halves, then quarters, then smaller pieces each of which representing a percentage of the size of the original tomato and
at the same time its complete and complex flavor.
Adding them to the pan and turning up the heat for a few minutes, then down to a simmer, waiting for raw ingredients to
fusing flavors, changing shapes, slowly turning texture into
a new state, my very own sauce ready to make any pasta shine,
and then my mouth water, and my taste buds jump out of joy.
Isn’t this what life is all about?
NaPoWriMo 2024 Day 26: Write a poem in which you closely describe an object or place, and then end with a much more abstract line that doesn’t seemingly have anything to do with that object or place, but which, of course, really does!
California Journal 