It’s not that gooey puff pastry brie
with a mash of apricots on top that makes you
grab a spoon, leave the room and devour it.
Nor does it have the welcome tang of fromage de chèvre
with hints of lavender and clover
aging gracefully through summer in Provence.
And there’s nowhere near the gravitas
of a massive wheel of cheddar, four of which
could roll a cart through a field of heather.
It’s a pile of slices individually wrapped –
still a kick after all these years to unpeel each one
when making a grilled cheese sandwich.
Mom’s passion for genealogy found
eight ancestors in the Revolutionary War,
got us even further back to William the Conqueror,
but I’d rather have her recipe for mac and cheese
which she said used American Sharp White,
shredded, mixed in what you would expect,
never written down so now a mystery.
Hard to think a casserole of elbow macaroni
with tiny slightly zesty curds, crispy on the top
could hold its own with epicures and history.
Hard know while busy living
what a legacy will be.
[This is a Featured Poem from our Spring 2024 Poetry Contest.]
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