What My Skillet Teaches Me About Transformation

Each evening my skillet proposes

something new to toss,

and simmer in its flat

bottom boat with maximum sizzle.

Adaptability is its creed. Call it

a frying pan if you must, my skillet

is versatile. It instructs just below

the boiling point; nothing sticks to it.

It sings as the sun sets on cherry tomatoes

kissing a scintillation of olive oil.

It scorches rice, orzo, couscous

and pastas of all sizes and shapes.

It invites a downpour of white wine

to reduce, the heavy cream to thicken.

There’s mixing and mingling

in the evening’s heat.

My senses come alive in the coupling

of minced garlic and bubbling oil, become one

in a fragrance that embraces me,

awakens my salivary glands.

If all you have is a skillet,

you have what it takes to unlock desire.

You have the Sean Connery

of cookware.

You may think you need more

and maybe you do, but light up

the stove top, chop up the onions,

chop all your forlorn leftovers,

the shriveled vegetables holed up

in back of your fridge, add it to that golden bowl,

the chalice of hot imaginings. Come to the lip

of all that quells your hungers.