1 July 2009
There's something real about working
flour with naked hands--
more sensitive than any pastry knife, my fingers
blend more naturally than stainless steel.
Water and flour become cool,
pliant dough against my skin.
Given my mother's unused kitchen,
we could have mixed the dough in half the time,
reduced the strengthening on our forearms,
the time spent learning where my sister-in-law
learned to make salteñas and empanadas.
We laid a foundation
and I asked where the napkins were kept:
"En la puerta."
"...the door? In the door? Oh, the Pantry!"
"Si! En la puerta."
"...Where? ...um... Donde?"
"A-BA-jo..." A slight nod toward the floor
She opened la puerta to the language of her heart,
and all because we took the long way around.