Tears in My Sauce
My mother gave me a book of poems for Christmas. She said
that Billy Collins’ poems reminded her of the poems I have
been sending her lately.
The black-haired woman at the Italian food store told the man
behind the counter that the Osso Buco was too expensive and
demanded a reason. He had nothing to tell her; he just worked
there and she was from the old country and wanted more. I
figured she must know how to cook Osso Buco, so I asked her
and she was so pleased to tell me her recipe. Italians, she said,
brown the meat and then scrape the pan and the scrapings
have all the flavor. This is the second time I have been told
that the secret to good Italian cooking resides in these
scrapings.
But this night I cooked sausage, peppers, and onions, and I
read the poems from the Billy Collins book.
It became so clear to me that poets like Billy Collins have a real
job. His job… their job… our job… my job is to wander the face
of the earth and report back to all the busy people about all the
tiny little things in life that they are not paying attention to like
the lady in the Italian store with a two-hundred–year-old recipe
for Osso Buco locked up in her head who shared it with this
stranger, this poet, with nothing to offer her in exchange.
And when I sat down alone to eat the dinner that I had cooked
from scratch, I broke into tears halfway through my meal, my
tears dripping into my food, seasoning it with the realization of
who I and Billy Collins really are and wondering if we are
blessed or cursed.
that Billy Collins’ poems reminded her of the poems I have
been sending her lately.
The black-haired woman at the Italian food store told the man
behind the counter that the Osso Buco was too expensive and
demanded a reason. He had nothing to tell her; he just worked
there and she was from the old country and wanted more. I
figured she must know how to cook Osso Buco, so I asked her
and she was so pleased to tell me her recipe. Italians, she said,
brown the meat and then scrape the pan and the scrapings
have all the flavor. This is the second time I have been told
that the secret to good Italian cooking resides in these
scrapings.
But this night I cooked sausage, peppers, and onions, and I
read the poems from the Billy Collins book.
It became so clear to me that poets like Billy Collins have a real
job. His job… their job… our job… my job is to wander the face
of the earth and report back to all the busy people about all the
tiny little things in life that they are not paying attention to like
the lady in the Italian store with a two-hundred–year-old recipe
for Osso Buco locked up in her head who shared it with this
stranger, this poet, with nothing to offer her in exchange.
And when I sat down alone to eat the dinner that I had cooked
from scratch, I broke into tears halfway through my meal, my
tears dripping into my food, seasoning it with the realization of
who I and Billy Collins really are and wondering if we are
blessed or cursed.
© Michael Domino 2007
by Michael Domino
Port Jefferson, NY
A few days before New Years, 2007
A few days before New Years, 2007