"crisper" poems - Hello Poetry

There is no smell in all the world, None in the North or South, None in the East or West, None in the lowest places, None on the highest peaks, Like that smell filling the air, Filling the house, Filling my senses, That smell of spaghetti frying, Frying in the morning light, The smell so different from when it was first cooked, Moving the senses, Moving the mind, Anticipation in scent, The sauce sizzling, Changing, Changing in the frying pan, As the noodles turn crisper, Crisper, Crisp, With that crispness like no other, The noodles, No longer white, Made yellow, Yellow from the sauce, Fried onto them, One with them, Flavours seeping in, And the sauce, Orange now, Red orange but clearly orange, No longer the bright red it was when it entered the pan, And as the sauce and noodles change, Reach that perfect point, The smell just right, The colour just right, The texture just right, The sizzling reaching the perfect crescendo, Then, and only then, The spaghetti no longer stirring, Evened out, Temperature lowered, And carefully, Slowly, To keep them on the top, The eggs break, White running among the noodles, Filling the gaps, Turning from clear to white as they hit the hot pan, Yolks floating on top where they should be, The perfect drop, And the odours as the white changes, Filling the air with new scents, Mingling with the ones already present, And then the salt, disappearing on the surface, The black pepper, Black flects, Scattered evenly, Perfectly, The smell of pepper joining the egg and spaghetti, And a splash of Tobacco Sauce across the whole, That hot smell, That bright red colour, And the silver lid slips on, Over the top, Hiding, Protecting, Cooking the whole, Until it is done, And the lid set aside, The whole onto a plate, Perfect to the senses, The smell, The colours, The texture, Perfect, And the first bight, Heavenly, Like nothing else on earth, Almost sweet, But still savoury, Strange to those knowing bowled pasta, Strange to those knowing simmered sauce, Strange to those knowing fried eggs, But the tastes, Perfect, Blended, Strange but familiar, Many memories, Images, Experiences, All coming together like the different parts of the fried spaghetti, And the fork through the yoke, As it runs down, Bright yellow into orange and red and black and white, Perfect, Amazing, Done. ~The Smell of Fried Spaghetti by Bethany Davis, June 19, 2015

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Jul 19, 2015

Jul 19, 2015 at 12:40 PM UTC

countessellis

The Smell of Fried Spaghetti

There is no smell in all the world, None in the North or South, None in the East or West, None in the lowest places, None on the highest peaks, Like that smell filling the air, Filling the house, Filling my senses, That smell of spaghetti frying, Frying in the morning light, The smell so different from when it was first cooked, Moving the senses, Moving the mind, Anticipation in scent, The sauce sizzling, Changing, Changing in the frying pan, As the noodles turn crisper, Crisper, Crisp, With that crispness like no other, The noodles, No longer white, Made yellow, Yellow from the sauce, Fried onto them, One with them, Flavours seeping in, And the sauce, Orange now, Red orange but clearly orange, No longer the bright red it was when it entered the pan, And as the sauce and noodles change, Reach that perfect point, The smell just right, The colour just right, The texture just right, The sizzling reaching the perfect crescendo, Then, and only then, The spaghetti no longer stirring, Evened out, Temperature lowered, And carefully, Slowly, To keep them on the top, The eggs break, White running among the noodles, Filling the gaps, Turning from clear to white as they hit the hot pan, Yolks floating on top where they should be, The perfect drop, And the odours as the white changes, Filling the air with new scents, Mingling with the ones already present, And then the salt, disappearing on the surface, The black pepper, Black flects, Scattered evenly, Perfectly, The smell of pepper joining the egg and spaghetti, And a splash of Tobacco Sauce across the whole, That hot smell, That bright red colour, And the silver lid slips on, Over the top, Hiding, Protecting, Cooking the whole, Until it is done, And the lid set aside, The whole onto a plate, Perfect to the senses, The smell, The colours, The texture, Perfect, And the first bight, Heavenly, Like nothing else on earth, Almost sweet, But still savoury, Strange to those knowing bowled pasta, Strange to those knowing simmered sauce, Strange to those knowing fried eggs, But the tastes, Perfect, Blended, Strange but familiar, Many memories, Images, Experiences, All coming together like the different parts of the fried spaghetti, And the fork through the yoke, As it runs down, Bright yellow into orange and red and black and white, Perfect, Amazing, Done. ~The Smell of Fried Spaghetti by Bethany Davis, June 19, 2015