American Heritage

Loose curls of apple peel lie piled to the side
on the wooden board. In half, stem to blossom end,
then quarters. With a neat turn of the knife
out spill dark seeds, the hulled core. From this quartered
orb slice thin longitudes, then chop chop chop
apple chips on the board. Quick, efficient. That’s how I learned
geometry, I suppose, and astronomy, while the kitchen lamp
shone on this side, then that, of a tilted orbiting apple.

Now I am in another country, guest of a friend.
Between us in her kitchen the common geometry of a pie,
and rising on the fragrance of cinnamon,
old stories her grandmother recited, the tunes
that both our mothers hummed. We talk
of the old ways, of bread proofed above a woodstove,
the way our mothers baked “by feel,”
ingredients measured by heft in the hand.

Beside me my foreign friend rotates the whole apple,
a globe, over and over in her hand, whittling
little random wedges that drop directly to the bowl.
I watch, proud of my mother’s lessons, my own
deft dissection of the apple, --my way
faster, my friend’s more relaxed,
safer perhaps; short strokes, the blade controlled,American Heritage

Loose curls of apple peel lie piled
on the wooden board. In half, stem to
blossom end, then quarters. With a neat turn of the knife
out spill the dark seeds, the hulled core. From this
quartered orb slice thin longitudes. Quick, efficient.
That’s how I learned geometry, I suppose,
and astronomy, while the kitchen lamp
shone on this side, then that, of a tilted orbiting apple.

Now, the guest of a friend, I am in another country.
Between us in her kitchen the common
geometry of a pie, and rising on the fragrance
of cinnamon, stories our grandmothers told,
tunes that both our mothers hummed. We talk
of bread proofed above a woodstove,
the way our mothers baked “by feel,”
ingredients measured by heft in the hand.

Beside me my friend rotates the whole apple,
a globe, over and over in her hand, whittling
little random wedges that drop to the bowl.
I watch, proud my own deft dissection of the apple—
my way faster, my friend’s more relaxed,
safer perhaps; the apple in her hand smaller
and smaller; short strokes, the blade controlled.


This poem first appeared in Cimarron Review, Issue 162, Winter, 2008.