My Trip VIII: In the kitchen

I was cooking chuchu one day, and thought of taking photos of a Brazilian common food--in a Brazilian kitchen. On the wall there is a verse Mother asked me to copy and frame once--I always wanted to redo it for her, and never got around to it. She loved that simple poem, written by a poet-friend of hers, and here is a rough translation of mine. Enjoy.




I wish, I so wish I could write verses
Like the ones who make fruit preserves
So that, when you read them,
You could savor them as well.

To make verses in a copper pot,
Well-scrubbed, shiny,
Thin sugar syrup simmering on a wood stove,
In the heat and aroma of burning embers.

To bring for a couple of days, or a few hours,
The fruit of the Word, slowly cooking themselves in the sweetness of sugar,
Losing their bitterness, the roughness of the fruit,
Having its flavor enhanced
By the sugar of the sauce,
By the warmth of the fire.

How does one make verses like this,
like the one who makes fruit preserves?
There is a recipe, not written in books,
It is a hidden recipe, carefully hidden,
Hidden in God.

Yet I know I bring it,
If still lost
Here inside me.