Inheritance

My mother never mistook cooking for love—that’s not a slight.
She was too practical for that, rotating shifts as a nurse
with my dad the cop so someone was always at home with me.
Canned and processed, she took what her generation gave her:
creamed corn, Beefaroni, orange Kraft cheese slices in perfect
cellophane squares. Miracle Whip not mayonnaise, margarine
instead of butter. It’s been a minute since she cooked from scratch:
thick-sliced ham cut up and thrown in a pot of iced potatoes
or butter beans. Deviled eggs and deviled crabs with Krispy Kreme
glazed donuts on the side, Kool-Aid to wash it all down.
No recipes to inherit, no sacred cows to burn on the stove’s
bright eye. Provide. Provide. We do the best we can. When I cook,
I speak to her, skillet to skillet, my crab cakes to her fish sticks,
talking between the bones and claws, the hot oil of it all.