my mother used a paring knife
slipped it in under the stem
like an assassin
and spun the blood red strawberry
in one motion
twisting out unwanted green leaves
then used the same knife to slice
small rings that radiated white to pink
dropping them in a bowl
no two slices the same size
i use a tool like a tiny melon-baller with teeth
designed to gouge out the stem
little waste but more than my
mother would approve of (or leave)
with her small knife
it is a convenience
as is the strawberry slicer
humorlessly designed to resemble
a strawberry (insert a
stop cutting yourself joke here)
maybe so i won’t try to use it
to slice olives or golf balls
every piece is the same width
except for the end pieces
which sometimes get stuck
between the blades
or the bottom of the tray
our recipes differ in the application
i think she used a quarter cup of sugar
for every basket of strawberries she sliced
i am less generous and use maple sugar
trying to keep things less processed
(though sugar is sugar)
i don’t use two pints of half and half
though sometimes i sneak in some
almond milk (unsweetened)
we agree on using pie crust as a superior
supporter for its texture to sponge cake
and really, sponge cake?
i think about those pictures of
brains, images as slices, PET or CAT scans
(not all pets are cats,
but are all CATs PETs?
is this where the
what did her images look like?
i clean red stains from my fingers
once her memories were gone
were the lobes smooth
the crenellations filled in
like a smooth coating of chocolate
hiding the pits
and seeds in the skin of the strawberry
each a potential synapse where
a memory haunted like a little ghost
i measure my head
against the bed of the slicer
i might be able to fit an eyeball in there
just in time for halloween
8 thoughts on “fruit (20191017)”
I guess our mothers are always in our minds
True. Thanks for stopping by and saying hi.
Love this. Very nicely executed, the last chunk is ideal.
– Esme applauding upon the Cloud
Thank you so much.
I’m with Esme. Excellent.
Thank you, sir.
My mother would pare potato skins, and I would be critical of her because she couldn’t be bothered to trim carefully, and threw out so much potato! Now I laugh and think of her whilst I cook.
In her defense, she did put every scrap in a compost pile for the garden, so I suppose that nothing was wasted.
My mom would occasionally get on me (those times when I helped out in the kitchen) if I cut too much potato along with an eye or a brown spot. She grew up on a farm so I guess nothing went to waste.
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