Chicken broth reminds me of home,
when I’d come back from an exhausting evening,
pull open the door and be deluged in
a sea of savor.
It’s the kind of smell that permeates
every pore in the house, an aroma
so pungent it seizes one’s body to float
like a cartoon to the very source.
A great warm pot resting on the stove
filled with chicken parts in
liquid gold, every drop of
fat and flavor fused in the broth.
My puffy cheeks reflected against
the steaming hot pot lid,
my hands pinned against my sides so as not
to disturb the elixir’s slumber,
though I risked drowning to my own saliva.
Only when my mother called for dinner
did the floodgates of flavor burst open and
compel me to devour my own personal gallon
no matter how badly the heat seared my tongue.
It is a tonic that sets my soul ablaze,
a potion teeming with nutrients,
the essence of time and labor packed into a bowl.
The power is so captivating that I can’t help
but lick my lips and
let out a sigh.