Food and its creation/consumption, above all else, is our daily link to embodiment. Eating reminds us—each day, each meal—that we are, after all, still just physical creatures. It sanctifies our being: body and soul, as in the church and in the city streets.
These three simple poems describe a fall, an absence, and a resurrection. It’s not always through destruction that we find ourselves, but it can be. It can be in the kitchen where transformation takes place, as in the simple act of tearing the pit from a plum. It can be the tears that only come when slicing an onion. And it can be spilled coffee and broken eggs meant for breakfast in bed. The kitchen, like no place else, is the room where spirit and skin, apparition and appetite have the space to cry–together, as they must–their primordial howls.