Mise en Place
a poem
Mise en Place
by Jill Hinton Wolfe
The Dutch oven holds its heat like a body
That has learned to be patient.
I press the garlic until it surrenders its sharpness,
Watch it swoop golden the the sauté pan,
A brief, bright dive before it darkens.
Outside, a cardinal lands on the fence post,
Skitters, is gone.
The colander drains in the sink,
Its small perforations letting go
of what doesn’t need to stay.
The mandoline waits, indifferent,
For the next thing to be made thin.
I’ve been molting all winter—
Losing feathers I didn’t know I had,
finding the layers underneath.
The butter knife is the most honest tool I own.
It spreads, it does not cut.
There is something I’m still learning
about that kind of gentleness.
When the oven clicks on, the whole house
Shifts slightly toward warmth.
I hold the whisk loosely, the way
my mother held a thought that was almost
Ready to become something.
The cleaver hangs. Unused tonight.
Some evenings call for precision.
Some call for patience.
Some just call for soup.
Love this Jill, the tools with a singular purpose bring discipline and order. And in the end, the transformation to the nourishment of a good soup. You are certainly blessed with a nurtured talent.