Mirepoix

Onions

diced—

the knife against

it’s crisp guts

being stopped by a wooden cutting board

a hollow sound, earthy and bold.

—-

They slide into a pan

of olive oil,

loose and hot.

Kosher salt

sprinkled in generously

like snowfall.

The combination

lights up our humble apartment

giving effortless affection

to the senses.

My hand

runs along

the rough edges of a carrot

conflicted over

whether or not to peel it.

“We’re going rustic tonight”,

I say to myself

as the tension from my shoulders

dissipates into the sound

of Edith Piaf

on the record player.

The celery

abounds

with a full head of leaves.

I snap one of the stocks in two

and stick one

in between my teeth;

“She was born

Distinct and sweet”, I think

As the crunch

is felt in the inner workings of my soul.

I add bountiful handfuls

of both vegetables

to the fragrant onions

Bathing in butter and salt.

“I bet they can smell this all the way across the world,” my wife states, hungrily.

I gently twirl

a wooden spoon around the mixture.

I untie the roast,

marbly and blood red.

Holding it in one hand

I smack the side of it like a newborn

and gleefully proclaim

“Pièce de résistance!”

As it begins to cry

all over the cutting board.