Watching Monzú at Work

I once read about a monzú
in a Sicilian cookbook,
a mark of culinary esteem
on the isle of sun and winds.
it’s funny how things can erupt,
all of a sudden, volcano-like
from one’s own la storia.
there I was on an evening
I had to cook for my wife –
once a week she worked at night.
no big deal – hey I’m Sicilian.
then again she was such a chef,
so would it be a warmed up TV dinner,
or maybe pick up some fast food,
the lowest on the meal chain?
how about Chinese, Italian, deli, Indian
to take out, to go, to carry out?
I trashed thru a pile of menus.
no, I had to do something special,
at least the first time.

I picked up a pound of shrimp at the market.
it would be easy enough to sauté them
in virgin olive oil, garlic and red hot pepper flakes,
steam some broccoli with more garlic,
toss a salad, chill a Prosecco,
but I sensed there was something missing.

I searched around unfamiliar territory
and came up with a sack of potatoes,
tumbling over the counter
like lava rocks rolling out of control.
they hit the terra-cotta floor.
I bent down to pick these earthen pieces
and as I rose, dizziness set in.
I pulled over a high stool to stabilize myself,
staring at a mountain of spuds,
only it was another kitchen in South Brooklyn
aka Carroll Gardens today.

a Wildroot hairy ever hungry teen
standing, waiting, watching
my monzú prepare cazziddi.
the oil had to be sizzling hot
but not smoking hot,
each hand crafted croquette
protected by flour and egg and breadcrumbs,
so as not to spill in the pan
like molten mud scared white.
the way my mother folded each one
around a sliver of mozzarella
with simpatico,
and the taste, hardly cooled down
was so delizioso.
I replicated the past
in golden brown rows.

when my wife entered, the candles were lit,
and Karen Akers sang French lyrics.
she smiled and we embraced,
letting me go to freshen up.
During supper old flavors,
mummified in memory, burst thru
as flashes of fireworks
on a Coney Island beach in summer.