(for Margery Thompson)

I first made your mother’s custards
for your mother some 26 years ago
in her last year of her life—

her faithful recipe neatly inked
onto the 3×5 card that you gave me
after she died. Easy, you said.

I, one of the cooking impaired,
asked my best friend how to scald
the milk, which is when she—

a good cook herself—delivered
one of her funniest lines:
How do you feed yourself?

Not with scalded milk, I retorted.
You patiently explained the simple
process, and I delightedly presented

my first custards in your mother’s
1950s milk-colored Pyrex cups to her,
which she praised as if I had brought

her Baked Alaska (what alchemy
it must take to bake ice cream!).
Her eyes closed as the first spoonful

reached her mouth—just as yours
did today when I delivered a pink cup
of custard to you in the hospital,

the very definition of comfort food
from your mama through me to you,
her adored daughter, who has

fed me and friends and family for
decades, who has taught me more
than a thing or two about food.

And as I stood next to you of little
appetite, watching your face fold into
into contentment as you savored

every bit of custard, spooned the
little pink bowl clean, I confessed
my haphazard application of

cinnamon on top. In between bites,
you, my cooking coach, gently suggested
how to avoid clumping the next time,

which made us both grin, knowing
how eager I was to head back
to the kitchen and give it a try.