A.J.
Gravano
Grandfather
in the Kitchen
He took the back of his hand
to wipe the sweat from
his head
as he stood in front of the stove.
Water neared a full boil
when he grabbed the sea salt
and added a dash.
Steam blocked his sight,
as he seized the homemade
linguini
and dropped it into the pot.
In the other pan
he added three tablespoons
of olive oil – swished it around,
before he
tossed in the garlic.
His large nostrils inhaled the aroma,
while stirring
the pasta
and eyeing the sizzling cloves.
Clams drip dried in the colander
waiting for their
quick death
in my favorite dish.
At the right moment he took the shellfish,
and with
one hand pushed them in
and seasoned again.
A cup of white Marsala and basic ragu
went in together
along with
another pinch of salt, a dash of pepper.
The lid sealed the smell
of fresh basil
in the marinara sauce.
With a fork he plunged for a taste—
still steaming
he moved the linguini
to his asbestos mouth.
I looked for his subtle certainty,
his gesture of
a half-smile—
al dente.
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