To the hot oil sizzling in the pan as I stand here
and make dinner, chicken cutlets, fish cakes, latkes.
To the oil that burns and chars the pan
so I have to scrub it clean, scour black scars, and dump the remains
in an old coffee can kept under the sink like my mother did,
to its scent that hangs in the air for days
the way memory clings
to my mother’s heavy, enameled cast iron pan
where she, too, fried latkes and taught me not to scorch
the omelets; to the oil that shimmered and bubbled
loudly around their edges.
To the Saturday mornings we tried not to wake the house
while my father and I fried eggs for breakfast with bacon,
how the hot-oil smell wafted clear through my whole childhood
and arrives here, now.
To December’s hot oil full of latkes,
how it crisps and browns them—the oil of those potato cakes
we make to remember the miraculous oil that burned in the menorah
not for one day or two days or three days or four but eight, eight, eight days
and how everyone danced for that beautiful oil, that hot oil that lit the temple
and glows on my face and my son’s and all the children since.
To that drop of oil that forms a small blister on my finger,
reminding me I am still alive, I am here in this kitchen, I can feel
pain and the comfort of cold water, and I can be here, now,
as I clean out the skillet because all of the women before me
who stood in front of hot oil and slicked back their hair and wiped their hands
on their aprons, or on rags, or on nothing at all and who, thinking
about their mothers, their fathers, their children,
held out a plate and said Here.
Sarah A. Etlinger is an English professor who lives in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. A Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, she is the author of three books, most recently The Weather Gods (Fernwood/Barclay 2023). Recent work appears in Orison’s Best Spiritual Writing, Rattle, 3rd Wednesday, and many others. For other work and inquiries, visit sarahetlinger.com or follow on Twitter at @drsaephd.
Image: gazettenet.com
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Heavy Feather Review 