Into the Pan

The kitchen is a chorus of crackling—
butter and oil pop harmoniously, the air sizzles
as heat and thin smoke prick the chefs eyes
like an onion. Counters are colorful graveyards,
sticky and scattered with discarded vegetables.

A thick slice of meat rests in the center
of the hysteria, salted, peppered, prepped
for cooking, waiting, wondering
—if meat could—about the frying pan.
The dark finish of the cast iron pan looms
over the contemplative meat, yet chef does not notice.

The stove is a place of grandeur and destruction;
dirty spoons and spatulas lay wasted
across the crisscross of the lattice grates
like expectant Valkyries. They were once
bent to the task, shoveling tributes into the sweltering rink,
pushing them around in figure eights, gliding
one over the other.

Hot butter cackles and clucks, calling to its friend;
the meat is ready, the call echoes through the house.
This Valhalla sits atop the blazing stove. Chef prepares
for all to be ushered by the holy angels of that Hell
as the unassuming Valkyries set about their shoveling,
making way for the supple saint to sprawl in this bath
of delicious bliss.

Smoke drips like saliva as it wafts through the windows,
crawling along the kitchen walls, inching past the door frame
into the dining room. The room struggles with anticipation—
something delicious, doused in thick sauces is coming.
Until then, the counter is in a holding pattern,
commandeered by knives systematically clicking,
scratching, scraping against stone.