Can't refuse the Muse

Nov 2012
04 Sun

Last night I put turkey wings in the oven and loved them until the meat fell off the bones. I put all that lovin in a heavy cast iron pot and let it rest. Today, I will let it nestle next to some collard greens and brown rice and I will eat a sliver of the turkey and work the seasoning off of one wing tip and I will be full. I will be full because my food is to do the will of the Mother. In this work, I am satisfied.

This morning, I took the chicken breasts out of the refrigerator and smeared some lovin on them. I warmed the oven to make a cozy environment for them and covered the pan with foil so they could see their beauty reflected back on them as they steeped in the hotbed that I made for them. I rubbed them with seasoning and blanketed them in my magician's cape so that they would emerge in a pan full of gravy and not just regular old drippins. You know, chicken breasts tend to dry out if you don't treat them right. I want them to fulfill their destiny to be all that they can be. When they are done, I will remove the foil from the pan and close my eyes and inhale their scent. It's not like new baby smell - that makes me want to cuddle. It's not like new car smell - I always liked vanillaroma better anyway. No, this is like back when we were colored but we used cast iron pots and pans because it was all we had. It is like when Grandma would make biscuits that were perfectly round because she cut the dough with a floured glass and not a fancy cutter from a specialty store. This is like what Cracker Barrel wants us to think of when we sit in the rocking chair that we won't buy. This is the smell of my mother's kitchen on any given school day. This is another kind of love that I have known and felt. This is the kind of love that can only be generated by the work of certain kinds of hands. There are hands that massage, hands that play instruments, hands that speak in time with our words, hands that heal, hands that harm and there are hands that serve as the Master's hands. The scent of the chicken swathed in gravy is the scent of what we call Grandma's Hands. It's not a lotion. It's not a perfume. It is the smell of love and work and sacrifice and discipline and healing and truly there is nothing as sweet or savory as the smell of Grandma's Hands.

This morning, I read another writer's work. I listened to a musician's song. I studied a painter's painting. These were all acts of invocation. Finally, I sat down to my keyboard and a blank page and let the words flow freely. That was the act of worship. When I wrestle the courage to post it to the blog and publish it - flaws and all - that is the offering.

And this is the benediction -
May the God of all creation be with you until we meet again.
Shalom