I’ve always imagined poetry as a kind of food truck.
Not the stainless-steel kind you see outside concerts
But one that pulls up anywhere the heart is hungry—
feeding whoever needs it
with whatever words are warm enough to heal.
Some nights,
the world feels starved for decency.
And so I park this poem here,
in the middle of your life,
like a small rolling kitchen of truth.
Because poetry —
is an attempt to express the ineffable.
To take something wild and wordless,
like an ache
or a flash of clarity,
and turn it into language that moves
the way it first moved you.
And sometimes…
food does the same.
A single dish, a scent rising in steam,
a drink sweating in your hand —
they can take you back.
To a childhood kitchen.
To a body you once loved.
To a silence you still haven’t spoken through.
That’s why I believe
poems and recipes
are long-lost twins.
A recipe, at its best,
is a poem written in sound and smell —
a map that guides a stranger
into making something sacred.
Something nourishing.
Something that might even save them.
So here is one of those.
Not for your stomach.
For your soul.
A recipe for forgiveness—
Hard to make.
Essential to survival.
Forgiveness: A Recipe in Three Acts
(Best served warm — but ice-cold works in emergencies.)
Act One: The Ingredients
You’ll need:
A heaping cup of pride — unbleached.
Two tablespoons of silence — the awkward kind.
One teaspoon crushed expectations — toasted.
Three-quarters cup of “but I was right” — gently wilted.
One ripe memory — bruised is fine.
A splash of divine timing — grace-brand only.
Zest of one old resentment.
Half a cup of Presence —
the kind that exists only right now.
Optional: one tiny violin.
For garnish. For drama. For yes.
Act Two: The Making
Begin with the pride.
Set it on the counter.
Look at it.
Do not touch it.
Let it soften
in room-temperature humility
for at least 20 minutes.
In a large bowl, whisk silence
with crushed expectations
until the mixture becomes uncomfortable.
You’ll know it’s ready
when it sounds like your childhood.
Fold in the “but I was right.”
Don’t overmix —
it will make the whole thing bitter.
(Some people leave this ingredient out.
They are monks…
or liars.)
Now, in a separate pan,
sauté the bruised memory
with the zest of resentment
until it releases its scent —
somewhere between rain-soaked letters
and the perfume your sister wore
when she left.
Deglaze with divine timing.
Yes, it will hiss.
Transformation usually does.
As Jesus said,
“Forgive seventy times seven.”
Not for them.
So you don’t become what they did.
Pour everything together.
Stir slowly.
Breathe.
Say nothing.
Bake at 350
for however long it takes.
You’ll know it’s done
when the scent fills the room
and no one’s asking
who apologized first.
Act Three: The Serving
Scoop onto a plate of second chances.
Garnish with grace.
Pair with a strong drink
and a willingness
to love
again.
Because forgiveness keeps beautifully
in the soul
but spoils fast
in the ego.
Refrigerate grudges if needed,
but consume
within one lifetime.
And as for the drink…
Let’s just say
there is a cocktail
that knows something about remembering,
and releasing,
and the sparkle that rises
when bitterness dissolves.
A little something I call
The Forget-Me-Not Fizz.
A glass that once held regret
but now —
holds a different kind of light.
But that recipe?
That alchemy of memory, truth, and grace?
That will be served…
next week.
Because forgiveness
is best sipped slowly.
