From the freezer, my daughter removes
a gallon bag of dull green scraps, plops them
into boiling water, and watches them simmer
into a funk of vegetable blood.
She understands reduction, appreciates
the economics of brine, what it means
not to waste nor want, the papery onions
disappearing before her eyes.
In the kitchen, everything gets an afterlife,
given enough time and the right touch
on a chilled February evening. Lauryn Hill
spins a groove on the turntable singing
about how everything is everything
as the greens cook down, reduced to
a silky soup, the soupy leavings discarded.
What’s left she pours into a blue and white bowl,
steam swirling above the rim. How easily
my daughter turns nothing into something.
This humble dish, ladling what time delivers,
needs croutons. Maybe some lemon zest.
