before challah toasted with Brie, honeyed goat cheese, arugula, fig compote
before crusty sourdough grilled with Gruyere, rosemary butter, caramelized shallots
before ancient-grain miche wood-fired with smoked Gouda, sliced pear, jalapeno jam
before Croque-Monsieur, Welsh Rarebit, Monte Cristo, Mushroom Reuben
there was my mother still in her nightgown and robe on a Sunday afternoon buttering
pieces of white bread - Pepperidge Farm, Arnold, Wonder - sandwiching
between them two slices of Kraft American cheese, individually unwrapped from plastic
unadulterated, unadulted, no tomato, no bacon, no onions, no mushrooms, just bread, butter
an edible scaffolding used to transfer heat from my grandfather’s chipped yellow enamel
frying pan towards the solid cheese center…butter melting, bread browning, cheese transforming
into hot, gooey, orange treasure while I waited, impatient on a kitchen stool, legs swinging
Sarah Laskin is an emerging poet and longtime creator-artist. She works in environmental conservation and lives in Washington DC with a fabulous dog. This is her first publication.
