my schizophrenic kitchen

listening to miles davis while making soup today, the sound of his lips blowing gentle like the humid breeze outside my, for once, rain free Rome apartment.

onions made naked,
sliced provocatively into half moon slivers
molding to my pan as they succumb to the influence of a pleasant sardo Vermentino
a touch of antilles scotch bonnets and a long lingering kiss from a bottle of sabina olive oil
left to simmer jauntily atop my stove.

now all they need is a saucy french hat (of gruyere of course)
to be worn atop a steaming crock.


sometimes cooking is a lot like sex.

~sparrow