In my kitchen there are two kinds of coffee pots. Four, actually, but I never use the Moccamaster Jesse and I bought in San Juan, or the French press we bought at IKEA.
The Nespresso is used first. I drink a shot of espresso while I read and journal about a poem. These last few months, I’ve been reading Jeanne Murray Walker’s book of sonnets called Pilgrim, You Find the Path by Walking.
Later I will use my large coffee pot, the Japanese one Jesse bought me for Mother’s Day a few years ago. I make three mugs with whole beans, and on writing days I will take thirty minutes to drink one mug at a time. That will give me ninety minutes of writing time. On the days I work I fill a thermos to take with me and sip while I sit next to little friends and help them with their words.
We have a thick wooden cutting board I use everyday to cut fruit and vegetables. When I’m not using it, I lean the board against the kitchen wall because I saw a picture in HGTV Magazine with a wooden cutting board against a kitchen wall, and I liked the way it looked. I’m always trying to make my house look like an HGTV magazine. I have an incredibly long way to go.
We have a cast iron skillet I use almost everyday to fry eggs. Jesse bought it when he first moved to Ann Arbor. He moved alone, so he could start his job and so that the girls and I could finish the school year. In his apartment was a NOAA mug he was given from work, a lawn chair, air mattress, a fork, a spoon, a knife, and the cast iron skillet. “You can make just about anything in it!” he proclaimed to me on the phone one evening during our many long distance calls, both of us equally excited about what life would be like in Ann Arbor and also about everything and everyone we’d need to say goodbye to in Maryland, D.C., and Virginia.
It is the cutting board and the skillet that make me want to write every morning. Perhaps this is because the Nespresso and the poetry get my blood flowing, but all sorts of thoughts and ideas bubble up from a pat of butter sizzling in the skillet. All sorts of stories come from taking inventory of what I have and then writing from it.
This week, stand in your kitchen and take inventory of what you have. Then write a poem about it.
Thanks to everyone who participated in last week’s poetry prompt. Here’s one from Sandra we enjoyed.
The Sheet Cookie
Dough globs gathered into
one chocolatey rectangular sheet
glistening with a measure of salt
that should have been sugar.
Daughter Abby and her friend Alicia
cooked it up one bored afternoon,
the original sweet and salty,
or mostly salty and a little sweet,
chipped in pieces from the pan
Dad ate it all.
I helped some.
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