the brand new stove—
first thing I’ve cooked on it—
the gas burner igniting, all systems
go, like the rocket called Artemis,
this week heading for the moon,
she the goddess of the hunt,
of wild animals, of vegetation
like the peas I add to the holy
trinity of soup—onions, carrots
and celery—along with chicken
stock and smashed garlic and
ham chunks, bringing it to a boil,
the flame cradling the craft entering
the lunar sphere of influence,
beaming back a photo of us on
our tiny blue marble suspended
in the blackness of space, a view
not seen from a human-rated
spacecraft for a half century
on Apollo’s final mission.
Now as his twin sister nears
the moon, 239,000 miles from
the place we call home, I lower
the flame to simmer, to settle
into humble soup.
Looks absolutely perfect and yummy for cool November nights!!!
Reminds me of my childhood in Reno. We lived in a trailer park and my beloveds stepdad was a fry cook, often laid off when snow blocked tourists and there was little business in the restaurant where he worked. Around Thanksgiving a friend of the family said he’s shot a goose and would we like it? Sure..save $$ on getting a turkey! He gave it to us to pluck and gut and cook. It was an antiquarian, to be sure, and it was like eating shoe leather. Mom made us goose sandwiches for school lunch and I’d toss the meat and eat the bread. Memories are made of this…
Whassup with Dick? No e-mails!
Wow! Brilliant weave of rocket action there, Jan! Love the photo, too!