Love is my grandma’s recipe book.
It’s filled with the memories we share, cooking together,
our hard work being paid off,
as the garlic lingers from the stove,
our salivary glands erupting with drool.

The recipes hold the secret ingredients
that keeps us close to one another.
It’s withered and tattered seams are proof
it has been in the family longer
than any ordinary book would be able to endure.

The book was there
when my great-great grandmother came to America.
It was there when she was so scared;
leaving Poland, her homeland, for the first time,
in search of a better life.

The book survived the separation from her family,
Her brother and mother not being allowed to ride,
Denied the ticket,
Sickness impossible to hide.

Flipping through the delicate pages,
forces a flashback into my mind.
Of all the places the book has been,
And all of the places is still has to find.

From Italian Pizzelles to Vodka Spaghetti sauce,
From meatball soup to the all famous chocolate cake,
the book is bursting at the seams,
each recipe holding my family’s love and passion to cook and bake.

Even when generations of grandmothers come and go,
The book will remain.
Its recipes strengthening our love for one another,
especially through the pain.