I hear my grandmother making music in the kitchen

A concert of clanging pots and boiling water

I rush to the table to witness my grandma

The artist, the musician, the master

Her paintbrush is a knife

Her orchestra is the sizzle of meat in the skillet

She is master of anything grown under the sun

Yellow corn yields in her presence and peels itself

Bread dare not burn in front of her

Her hips sway as the sounds amplify

Spices permeate the air, thicker than smoke

I taste a salty sweetness on my tongue

A pinch of this, a splash of that

She laughed at measuring cups

Her hands knew how much

Even when the cupboards were bare,

She made something appear in the middle of the old wooden table

It was magic!

My grandmother’s wand has seen many a hot pot, frying pan and black grill

Her talent and skill would put Betty Crocker to shame

All the recipes and dishes she created

Should’ve led her to fame

But she would rather remain anonymous and serve the both of us.