Caesar

Some of my 
most magical memories
were forged 
over wide bowls of romaine
bathed in unctuous 
lemony peppery dressing.

The kind of meal that 
takes you by surprise
as the ground anchovies mingle 
with freshly grated 
Parmigiano Reggiano D.O.P.
cutting through the heat dome 
grating through 
the ninety six percent humidity.

As the umami waves 
unfurl in all directions
the seemingly sturdy, 
crisp homemade baguette 
trapezoidal croutons 
yield at the bite to reveal rivulets 
of garlic imbued butter 
and warm olive oil,
providing the perfect surfing foil
of crunch and bite 
and new fats to the party.

Where flakes of 
sun-dried ocean salt 
nestle in the folds 
of an undulating sea of greens
and cracked orbs of black pepper 
fall down like dry rain 
from an ancestral 
silver pepper mill
that carries the weight 
and taste of generations.

Where the candle light flickers
and the beetles fly in 
and out of the periphery
and laughter tumbles 
out into the summer sky, 
joining soaring swooping bats 
out on their sonic prowl.

And the picnic table benches 
yield gently
like grand tectonic plates
softly, almost imperfectly bending
while the metal frame jiggles
with the merry weight 
of three related families 
converging for 
an annual delight 
of place and country.

And the fork brings a heft 
and a grounding to the flavors 
washing and breaking 
across the shores
of my awaiting tongue.

When the soft sounds 
of crumpled lettuce speared 
and twirled and triumphed 
transitions into the 
suddenly sober scraping 
of metal against porcelain; 
rock bottom net all too soon.

And then the table falls silent 
for just a moment — 

Long enough for each diner
to be struck with 
a quiet aha moment
Which bubbles out 
of the most eager mouth:
“I’m wanting more.
Seconds, anyone?”

And then a raft of easy giggles 
trickles from fat-ringed lips
as we all greedily anticipate 
more soft piles 
of saturated leaves 
and creamy scales 
of the king’s cheese 
from Parma.

And some kind member
pulls bare legs up 
and out of the bench
swiveling and pushing 
off into the dark.
Returning victorious,
Cheshire Cat grin glows
over an epic bowl of glory.

And gratefully, 
we resume our romaine Renaissance
— measuring art 
and painting science.
Curving teeth 
around perfect morsels 
of the season’s finest 
paired with a refreshed bounty 
of juicy lengths 
of charcoal flamed 
Rhode Island poultry breasts.
Which, while delicious, 
are almost beside the point.

The stars blink in disco divinity
punctuating 
the growing cloak of velvety dark
And as warm eyes 
with crinkles in the corners 
meet mine across the table, 
and the gentle generous 
curious eager questions 
weave in and out 
and fly over us like 
streams of Caesar 
from the end of a whisk flung 
by a practiced wrist.

The company I keep
reminds me why 
the day’s long drive was worth it.

And why this 
deceptively simple meal
Is the vessel for life itself.