Salt, Acid, Fat, Heat,

These are the elements of good cooking 

At least, that’s what they say

But we know the truth.

It’s in the chefs’ hands

Hands salted by ocean tears

A god’s apology for their cruelty

Hands salted by sweat-stained brows

Days never-ending, work never-ending,

Life never —

salt

Hands anointed by acidic anecdotes

Etchings of a survivor

Hands anointed by the slick drip

By the bloody drip

by the mourning drip

acid

Hands unperceived by fat

Food pushed towards others

Hands unperceived by inviolableness, 

exposed bone bent     battered   broken

compasses pointed home

fat

Hands engulfed by faring flambé 

Passing the warmth to the ones at the table

Immune to the pain

Hands engulfed by the searing embers of tomorrow

a future, yet realized

heat

There are no flavors of good cooking.

Good cooking is distant hills of home rolling in the wind

It is family you’ll never meet playing in the yard

It is speaking a language only your heart knows

It is measuring seasoning by listening for your ancestors to say

Good

It’s in the chefs’ hands. 

My mother’s father was a chef. 

My father-in-law was a chef. 

I am a chef. 

My hands are theirs.