whatever’s cheap, in season,
whatever promises health.
Whatever I have.
I am fixing
enough for one, methodically,
doing it right, making it last.
I am stir-frying vegetables
because steaming was yesterday
and tomorrow. And as they cook they,
as the old folks say, stir memories—
of all the meals you threw together
from whatever we could find
in the refrigerator, at roadside stands.
Night after night, vegetables,
their storybook shapes and colors,
every night a different combination,
different spices, sauces,
each meal a virtuoso
variation on a theme.
Tonight, with salt and pepper
my only choices,
I am stirring vegetables,
wishing at least one came in blue,
at least one tasted like steak
or Scotch or, better, both.
I am stirring vegetables
in the wok you let me have,
the only pan in which I didn’t stick
the girls’ scrambled breakfast eggs,
the one in which, feeling gifted once,
I made curried shrimp.
You remember—
you said you liked it
surrounded by wedges of lime
on a bed of cilantro,
served with asparagus
and a bottle of white wine.
I am stir-frying vegetables,
but if you are free this evening,
I would be happy to run to the store.