This was not a cotton candy year–
it lacked the levity or sweetness
of the barking pink cones,
nor was it a waffles-and-whipped cream year
served with Instagram-berries and fresh squeezed yuzu,
nor a wagyu steak year, sliced tableside,
by hushed voices wearing black coats.

This was not a year for fresh shaved truffles
atop a Swiss mountain or bucatini in a Roman alley,
or the earthy joy and rich laughter fed from these.
This was not a year of watermelons
big enough to feed the neighborhood. Or Nani’s
cannelloni. Or Grandma’s apple crisp.

More like an omakase year, chef’s choice–
but instead of sea urchin and silver kanpachi,
the chef served bitter greens, raw garlic,
and the watery chicken soup
I ate three days before my grandfather’s death.
I recall that soup most for its nothingness–
how could any food taste so little? And yet
its memory remains, despite my best efforts
at banana muffins.

Omakase, my choice.