New poem: "Cucina Povera"

 

Cucina Povera

 My Italian neighbor dropped over

with a small tub of fresh ricotta cheese

and another full of whey, and looking

exhausted from his trip to covid-infested

Toronto to see his family and family

doctor for the pain in his ear, and run

two, three, or half a dozen errands, I

offered him a large glass of wine to settle

him down, and we sat on my front deck

and talked of his trip; and then I asked

him about the ricotta whey, which brought

back memories of my mother’s ricotta

impanata. But I didn’t call it that, because

I had forgotten what it was, and simply

called it bread pudding; and he told me

that he loved ricotta impanata, and he got

me some whey to make it. And this brought

back memories of how my mother used to

make it, adding her own ricotta whey to dry

pieces of her own home-made crusty bread,

just another little treat that may one day,

if it hasn’t already, fall into that category

of exalted cucina povera, like good old

minestrone, that makes haute cuisine

of the poor’s cooking genius.