15 Feb 04 – LA

Nadja’s kitchen always called to us from the road: a warm spot where –
“have you eaten?” – crepes and salmon with cream and capers appeared
on steaming plates, borne by loving hands that had “just thrown
something together” out of that refrigerator of wonders

And no weary traveler was better blessed than us

My mother’s kitchen was made of different stuff: a well-lit spot
where, between leftover bags of pita bread and feta from
who-knows-when, we filled our bellies on Rosenzweig and Levinas –
“here’s something by Mary Oliver – have you tried her?” – and
countless poets in tumbled piles of wisdom, borne on loving words that
had “just reminded me of something” from that trove of wonders that
was my mother’s soul

And no weary son was better blessed than I