The recipes passed down
include stale bread, one egg,
a sip of milk, a little sugar.
A potato cut four ways.
My kids don’t know
there is no money for syrup or meat or milk
again.
They say I am the best mom,
the best mom, the best mom.
I turn crusts into joy,
I sing a bold song with my bad voice and the pan
is just the right heat. My kids
dance, they silly
all around the table, because I
am the best mom, the best. I show them
how to beat the egg, how to dip
the bread just enough, tell them this
is a family recipe. What kept
my mother, my nana, her people
alive—all this,
all this to pass down.
