When the local grocery’s shelf lay bare
where the Cora Romano should have been,
my mother carted me first to Price Chopper–just down the street–
then to Shop ‘n’ Save in the town over, then Hanneford—
a little ways farther—before deciding spaghetti and meatballs
wouldn’t be on the dinner menu after all.
I complained climbing in and out
of my car seat. The TV I was missing.
Why couldn’t she just buy a different brand?
Today, I use the same recipe written by my mother
‘s mother, substituting “Meatless Crumbles” for ground chuck.
My son doesn’t know the difference
as he squeals and squeezes his fingers
through the eggy, cheesy mess, rolling each clump
of mixture in his palms like I showed him.
Cora watches from her perch on the counter, and I admit
I’ve used other brands when they were on sale,
and with online ordering, I’ve never driven all over town
in search of ingredients. But I keep coming back
to the same, familiar beauty with roses in her hair,
not because I like it that much. My basic palate
can’t distinguish between one nutty dust and another,
but my mother’s could. And, somehow, I feel like she’s pleased
with me. That she taught me well. Her daughter knows good taste.
And maybe my grandmother’s pleased too,
that, despite being a vegetarian, yes, if nothing
else, her daughter did teach me good cheese.
[This is an Honorable Mention Poem from our Spring 2024 Poetry Contest.]
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