I remember mom’s kitchen
as the most sacred room in the house.
Family came together every night
no matter what happened in the day.
Mom’s kitchen made us smile.
She would see her children’s hunger
vanish at the table she set
and the thirsty glasses she filled.
Mom would go to the market
every weekend with meals creating
delicious swirls in her mind.
She would hand pick each ingredient
like a proud farmer welcoming
abundance after a long hard harvest.
But the magic really began
in the way she prepared every meal.
Cleaned, cut, chopped, prepped with a grin
and a dash or toss of this, and a sprinkle of that.
There were no cups that dared measure
what her heart could offer up
to a mixing bowl or a casserole.
I remember me and my mom
In the kitchen, as beads of her sweat poured
from the pots of pasta and steam.
Always filling her basket with giving,
to her, it was the recipe for living.
A big simmering pot, seasoned with the best
of everything that she has to give,
and a quiet room of meaningful intention
to fill with everyone she holds so dear.
~ jeffrey vionito