Zing Dawn

Zing Dawn–

My favorite smell, simplicity, of dishes rooted from her home.

Simplicity, but not so plain, in fact more of a delicacy.

Eggs lay themselves in every fridge; 

common cooking, cracking shells.

My mother’s made this tons and thousands of times, childhood to current now. 

Of comfort and of celebration, open to interpretation.

I see your skeptic: “eggs so simple? Why so special, tell me how?”

The moon will rise, with steaming clouds, and spots of soy will keep it round.

“It’s time to eat!” My mom will say, reciting recipes aloud.

And yes, simplicity returns

—a pale yellow, quickly burns,

my mouth too desperate, haven’t learned.

The silver rim has always held

The pool of pudding of steamed eggs. 

Child hands would weld

To the platter, watching the ripples, the jiggles.

A small wave in the moonlit lake.

No, not liquid, not sweet pudding— 

I know you know the diversity

Of eggs, but this one’s new to you, I guess.

Like scrambled but smooth; not boiled, no shells.

She reads off book: 

the lines, ingredients and measurements

written in her mind, strict non-strict. Strict 

because of chicken stock, but pick the one that has low salt.

Silk and smooth is otherwise lost, the frilling edge spreads—no halt.

I sink inside this bed, somehow;

Content, I’ve been from childhood to current now.