Activities of B. V. Dahlen

On Sundays she made pasta. She also made gravy which is what Sicilian Americans call their tomato sauce. On top of that narrow, rowhouse stove, she placed the enormous wear dented pot. It covered every burner. Into it went the peeled and seeded tomatoes, the cloves of pungent garlic, the herbs and spices that sent the acidic steam curling to our noses. All day it simmered, thickening and melding those flavors together. Meanwhile, on her porcelain-clad table top, she poured the durum flour and added the liquids, kneading and rotating the dough noisily. Her labor, and the bubbling pan behind her, flushed her cheeks and dampened her hairline. Wiping her flower-gloved hands on her voluminous apron, she pushed her gray-flecked hair from her brow and continued. The well-worn wooded pin looked heavy in her hands, but she wielded it with time-tempered skill, and soon the dough lay thin upon the table. With a metallic squeal, the large flat-bladed knife slid from its slot, and the cutting began. With accurate slashes, she carved the rolled dough into the most slender strands of spaghetti. Then she draped them on a wash line, strung back and forth from rusted hooks that marched the length of the back porch walls. Mrs. Colancecco wasn't some famous Italian chef, but she was a wizard of Italian culinary art. This hard-working mother of a large family, did her best to provide enough to feed them all well. She wove her magic weekly in that tiny kitchen, and we, the kids next door, when we could wheedle an invitation to dinner, were sometimes honored and rewarded with a whisper of that sorcery. Sitting around that crowded family table, our mouths would water, as she plopped the spiraling strands upon our plates, and ladled that fluid ruby gravy on top. We knew we were in the presence of a master, and our taste buds soon agreed.
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Sometimes on Saturdays, I'm inspired to cook. I really enjoy listening to Italian opera, while I stuff our freezer with savory meals. Inserting a CD and adjusting the sound to a roaring delivery, I assemble my ingredients and utensils. There's just something about Verdi, Rossini, and Puccini that incites, in me, a marathon of Italian culinary fervor

I usually begin by placing two of my largest pots on the stove. These will soon be filled with Minestrone and Tomato Gravy.
Into both, I scatter some crumbled sweet Italian sausage meat, stirring with a large wooden spoon, until it is golden and aromatic. While the meat browns, I busily caramelize several bell peppers, onions, and cloves of garlic to a well-chopped mixture. I remove the sausage, and add the minced vegetables to both pans, with just a bit of olive oil.
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Swirls of fanged meta
churn the flushing mud
where trod a foot,
fossilized and final.
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The trestle bridge stands
outlined by the filtered shadows
traversing the creek that slides
like oiled pewter through it’s concrete shanks
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The perfect day sits in old photographs
on mantlepieces and console tables
but it was never really perfect.
Moments of it may have been,
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I never liked
their conversations,
raucous laughter,
loud voices
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Who's there?
walking among my memories
tripping over cells of humour
falling on old war wounds.
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The green socks always
looked cute,
were always together,
neat and paired.
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