When my father cooks, he makes music

When my father cooks, he makes music.
There is a certain rhythm in his stirring,
like a sacred samba to be danced
in the alpines of Europa,
a troubadour preparing
a waltz for a circle of trees.

Sometimes the stirrings kilter, off-beat,
like caramba peddled on the alleyways of Seville,
yet the music remains as vibrant as
the million sunsets that lined those streets.
When my father cooks, I hear harmony
hiding shyly in the laurel and basil,
a cymbal crashing mildy in the leaves of mint,
salts and sauces as strong as a brass ensemble —
my father’s ladle becomes a baton,
and this is his grand concert.

Sometimes, I ask him:
What is the pitch in the pepper, I say,
What is the melody in the margarine?
And he tells me he does not know, exactly —
it’s just that in his heart, the broth sings
like a cello preparing a blanket to serve
as a pedestal for symphonies
or sonatas in C major.
He summons a cornucopia
of quavers moving in presto,
with well-placed rests
for the tongue’s recess.

I do not know how to cook, but I do know food,
and about music, I know a thing or two,
so I can confidently say that this is true:
my father makes music when he cooks.