Relish Making

 

Jars clatter against the pot,

their lids cooked clean in boiling water

drowning the flick-click of sister’s peeler

as cucumber skins pile high.

 

Wonder bread dangle from Mother’s mouth.

“Stops the tears,” she mumbles, shoving

another half onion into the grinder.

She pushes faster than I can cut.

 

We are a coven of cooks,

women from different decades.

My daughter allowed for the first time into

Our relish making.

 

Each year I forget turmeric stains.

Each year I’m told to use the old towel

to wipe the jars sparkling green

in the late day sun.

 

And only when we’re done,

When all is clean and put away

does  my daughter open the door,

letting our men back into our lives