The Language of Dinner
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| Several Thanksgivings ago |
The Language of Dinner
Love, to me, is a well-stocked cabinet.
A refrigerator with ambition.
A pot on the stove making promises
a microwave could never keep.
It is knowing what you like
without consulting the United Nations in my cupboard.
It is garlic on the cutting board,
butter behaving badly,
and enough magic to make tomorrow jealous.
Empty plates are the highest compliment.
No leftovers means no witnesses.
The little tummy rub is a standing ovation,
the belch an unsolicited review
from a thoroughly satisfied customer.
Some people write love letters.
Some buy flowers that die on schedule.
Some fret over every detail.
I prefer a full pantry,
a second helping,
and the beautiful domestic indecency
of feeding someone that I love
like their happiness is part of the recipe.
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