Be careful when you touch that jar.
It’s my grandma’s borscht.
The recipe’s been lost to time.
It’s the last jar of its kind.
Over there are cans of kippers
stacked in rows upon the shelf.
Some friends wrinkle noses,
think that kipper’s icky,
but in this house it’s dessert.
I’m dismayed when lox is absent.
Delis don’t exist in our town,
Without bagels, lox is now
a finger food.
You might find some summer sausage
hiding in the pantry or the fridge.
Our Basque friends sometimes pop over,
I know we must be prepared.
Ours is not a house of hot dogs,
Cheese is not American.
You might find some real surprises
in our pantry or our fridge.
published in Medusa's Kitchen
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