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# Emulsion
- URL: https://dianaludwick.com/emulsion/
- Published: 2026-10-20T17:44:00.000Z
- Updated: 2026-10-24T20:04:20.000Z
- Description: “Emulsion,” an homage to hypercapable women cycling between the chaos of global politics and socioeconomic pressures and the hope and pride the comes from the achievements we bring to this planet. written Tuesday, October 20, 2026 poem 293 in a series of 365 poems written by Diana Ludwick in 2026. P
- Author: Diana Ludwick
- Tags: 2026 Poetry Challenge, Corporate, Culinary, Eating and Drinking, Ethnographical, Food Tourism, Generational, Geriatric Millennial, Homage, Lineage, Maryland, Material Culture, Nostalgia, Of Cooking, Of Place, Poems, Recipe-ish, Recipes for Life, STEM, Affirming, Aioli, Autumn, Bandwidth, Butter Chicken, Capacity, Coven, Divine, Emulsion, Fall, friendship, Gathering, Glide Path, Host, Hostess, Hurricane, Hyper-Competent Women, Industries, Mavens, October, Sisters in Soul, Stick Blender, Symphony, Technology, Tuesday, Vaccine, Vibrational Energy, Winds, Women, #Migrated-1792872215677, #wp, #wp-post, #Import 2026-10-24 20:03

When the winds change  
and the tides turn  
a certain coven  
of hyper-capable women  
descend upon a  
designated host's home,   
a flash mob of a dinner party,  
turning suburban dining tables  
into feast boards of culinary tourism   
brought together under banner   
of comfort, restoration, and   
a celebration of color and spice.  
  
While its timing, location nor guest list   
ever the same, nor publicized,  
this assembly of mavens, at its core  
swirls with the vibrational energy   
that bathes the women present  
in a light, in a purpose,   
that fuels us until the next   
planned-spontaneous gathering.  
  
Spanning industries,  
we hail from technology, journalism,   
laboratory sciences and advocacy,  
international policy, finance,   
innovation and world health.  
Some are moms.  
Some are caretakers.  
All of us are tired.  
  
The terms "bandwidth" and "capacity"   
and "saturated" bandy about  
fast and freely as men   
opine on their team's yardage   
on a Sports-and-Sofa Sunday afternoon.  
  
Our roster ebbs and flows   
with the pressings of commitments,   
deadlines, keynotes, illness,   
injury and travel,   
but still, a quorum keeps the flame lit  
rekindling joy, affirming competence,   
reminding one another   
of our inherent worthiness.  
  
And soon chatter popcorns   
across the circle:  
  
"The news...."  
  
 "It's so much to process—"  
  
"And the midterms!"   
  
 "Things at work are so tense —"  
  
"I feel for you, your public role must be so fraught —"  
  
 "It's a shame she's not here —"  
  
And in unison:  
"We miss her!"  
  
These inside fears   
come out slowly at first,  
shared aloud with a halting tongue,  
the kind of chastened pause   
and slowly formed,   
tentative sentences.  
These emerge as a byproduct,   
a survival instinct  
— Darwinism afoot —  
of living immersed   
and unprotected  
in mixed audiences   
from boardrooms   
and myopic mommy groups  
to family chat threads.  
  
Hands clasping knees,   
subtle swaying,  
gently probing the edges of safety,  
members of the night   
let loose at last  
the lurking, haunting thoughts  
that have accumulated exponentially   
since the last time   
we felt cocooned enough   
to release that ever-straining   
pressure valve.  
  
Without fail someone comments:  
"I almost didn't come"  
met by nods  
and full-chested "*Mm-hmm*!"s.  
  
"Life is so hectic —"  
  
Which calls someone to interject:  
 "But I'm so glad I made it!"  
  
Ripples of verve shift us   
into the next realm:  
interspersed in our angst for the world,  
soon dribbles of delight,  
moments of pride,   
and hype for our sisters in soul   
begin to enter the mix,  
as if a warm stream of olive oil   
joining raw eggs   
and a standoffish smear of mustard.  
From first frenetic confinement  
of polar realities,   
a lava lamp of chaos,   
—thoughts defying capture,   
concerns without cure —  
we start murky, broken,   
battered by the universe's  
unseen stick blender.  
And when we blink   
we are aioli,   
a coveted mother sauce,   
a gift of the divine,  
emerging an emulsion,   
a singular silky symphony   
that only humans with hope and trust  
could summon into existence  
from such disparate   
and bitter ingredients.  
  
"Did you read her latest paper?"  
 "Groundbreaking!"  
  
 "And how did your talk go?"  
  
 "What do you mean 'imposter syndrome?' You full-on switched careers!"  
  
"You're in the room where decisions are made —  
 "The ones holding things together."  
  
 "I get such a boost of hope being here."  
  
"Can you believe she won that case against the State? Superstar!"  
  
"I'm so impressed with you!  
What do you *mean*  
you were "just"   
'dancing on a stage   
on Pennsylvania Avenue'   
— and let me see that photo —  
'in the shadow of the U.S. Capitol!'"  
  
"Listen to yourself,   
do you have any idea   
how incredible you are?"  
  
"You mean to tell me   
that you ran an international vaccine study   
that changed the history of the planet  
and you doubted your ability   
to make us butternut squash salad?"  
  
 "You're right, all of you!"  
  
"Look around at this room of awesome women!"  
  
"And here's how you know  
that I love you.  
Because I made butter chicken  
from scratch, on a *Tuesday*!"  
  
Our hostess is delighted,   
surprised at her success.  
We swat away her apprehension,  
marinating her in shared awe,  
cheering her on:   
Encore,   
encore!  
  
As teas steep and voices simmer  
we settle into cozy perches  
becoming one with the furniture  
feet relax, toes unfurl;  
shoulders loosen,   
jaws unclench,  
an audible, collective sigh of reset  
spreads through the room   
like the warm honey becoming one   
with the leaves in our mugs.  
  
  
From the constant buffeting  
by news and external forces  
we find smooth embrace in friendship forged;  
for at least tonight,  
we find our feminine glide path  
in a man-made hurricane.