My kitchen echoes. I turn my knife over
and scrape the onions into the pot
with the back of my knife, hearing
the friend who taught me to protect my edges.
As I slip the soup into bowls I make out
the faint roar of a distant jet engine –
my lover imported the ladle from Germany,
slipping its stainless steel curves into her suitcase.
I cook with my mother’s dish towel over my shoulder,
listening for my grandmothers’ voices whispering up
from the recipes they wrote on blue-lined index cards.

(Thanks to Jillypoet for the 11-line challenge
and Read.Write.Poem for the spark ("ladle").
Tune in tomorrow for more piping hot content.)