I made a casserole today.
I’ve never made a casserole before.
Really, it’s your casserole.
I’ll go ahead and say it.
You tried to convince me for years the unequivocal delicacy of americana culture laden with joyous vener-ocity (because that’s your word) that stumbles upon the most regal dishes of mankind, only for a firm structure and tasty cheese sauce protecting our sacred jewels in a meal meant to be shared.
I get it, you like cooking in a pyrex pan.
I used cast iron today.
I twisted your rules.
I added seasonings! That you don’t use!
I can only imagine the furious anger of betrayal you’d smile at me with.
It’s resting. I haven’t tasted it yet.
All I have in the meantime is a visual scrapbook of casserole cookery of your past, that you happened to share with me.
I told my Mother and she had the nerve to tell me over the phone not to burn it.
While I cooked, I tried to remember your method to cheesy bechamel sauces. The more artificial orange in hue ones.
You always had this knack for things I don’t.
You don’t like to cook the way I do.
I’m convinced you envy me a little bit every time something comes out good and I scrap your method of professional training.
Fuck it.
I cook how I want to cook.
I season with ferocity, you never picked up. Though I share my methods.
We just have different instincts.
I aim for complex and many secret ingredients.
You’re plain, simple and proud of it.
I’m willing to fuck it up just to achieve excellency.
You pull a charming dish and going to bed with a full tummy.
Quaint of you.
And I still think you’re the better cook.
My knees wobble when I bring a plate of whatever dish I made up.
Hoping you’re accepting. Vying for you to be impressed.
Only to hear that it’s good.
That’s all I needed. Now I know you love it. Now I know you appreciated and waited for me 45 minutes longer than I intended for us to eat, and was just fine with it.
Happy to be there.
Lingering in the kitchen the whole time. Pestering me on what I’m putting in it. Studying and ready to burglarize my recipe.
I don’t do recipes anyways, but you keep mine.
I didn’t have that today.
I got lost in the pages and once my mind came back to the surface the casserole cooled.
I did a little prayer and sign of the cross.
Somehow hoping in spirit, you knew I made your casserole.
The casserole of all the casseroles that are yours.
Only for me to go “Mm! It’s casserole.”
Like I’ve done for every other casserole.
I cut too big a piece like I always do.
You’re right again, even when you’re not here.
Casserole portion sizes do not equate to the equal portion of ingredients not served in casserole form.
I didn’t burn it, but I didn’t make enough sauce.
The bacon garnish was the best part.
Meaty, but not crispy.
But perfect for my not dry but not creamy sauce-laden rice.
A move I should’ve intended but didn’t. Maybe because you weren’t there.
Notions to nuclear families,
Disruption to attendance and I can only wish you were here,
Try something new, I made it for you.
I didn’t feel good, I had the blues.
So I made your fucking dish.
I hope the breeze brought it to you and somehow, one day.
We’ll cook dinner together again.
petrichor - archive 