Billions of women
Have known how to prepare a steak.

Libraries of recipes,
A deep glut
Tucked neatly into ancient scrapbooks
Boasting of delicate marinates, spells and
Sleight-of-hand saucery

Like witches hunched over a cauldron
Stirring,
Kneading with the same spoon
That their grandmothers fashioned.

Taste,
True taste, is a subtle dance
Between giving one’s all
(Every fiber, every ingredient)
And knowing the appropriate spice
Ever-proven to suffice
By meticulous, observable
Experimentation.

Billions of women
Have had remarkable taste,
Memorialized and passed down in a scrapbook
Tucked under the cupboard.

There is but one of these
I cared to read.
But it is covered in dirt,
Encased in marble,
And nowhere near the cupboard.