Some people like to build boats in the basement.
I like to do things to food.
—Julia Child

Bless me, Julia, for I have stepped
again into the kitchen where I have
few natural gifts,

and though I am not tackling any
of your greatest hits (still working
up the nerve to attempt

your French onion soup), I have,
in recent weeks, made five batches
of custard, and dazzled the man

in my life by showing up in his
kitchen with ingredients chopped
and ready to sizzle in the wok

for chicken stir-fry. Forgive my pride
in carrying off this simple meal
reasonably well (the chopped

Brussels sprouts were a nice touch,
if I do say so myself), but I count this,
along with my friend Lisa’s split pea

soup that my mother loved in winter
and my grandmother’s brownies—
ideally not consumed together—

as one of a handful of kitchen
accomplishments (besides
opening umpteen cat food cans

over many decades). You who
dropped a whole turkey on the floor
(“well, that didn’t go very well”)

and picked it up and kept going
on live television remind me
that food failures happen,

that we laugh and start again.
And if I keep this up, I might
get brave enough to try your

Quiche Lorraine, the secret
of which, you said, was cream
in the custard, and, oh, Julia,

custard I can do.