Unlit candles take center stage on the dining room table,

anxiously awaiting their time to shine.

Plates and silverware and nine people are gathered, ready for dinner to be served.

And now Grandma’s announcing in her kind yet no-nonsense timbre:

“Sit down!”

“It’s time to eat!”

“Don’t let it get cold!”

She’s cradling a food-caked spoon like a mother holds her newborn baby,

love and pride shining in her eyes.

Like always, this is a meal she’s designed a mental recipe for,

has shelved in her library of thoughts.

To me, someone who can’t cook to save her life,

it feels like magic, has felt like magic since I was tiny,

tottering on my tiptoes to try and sneak a sample of her newest recipe.

“I’d love the recipe for this!” someone surely murmurs

around a mouthful of her savory cuisine,

but even if any of us could enter her library of thoughts, check out a recipe,

follow every step like Hansel and Gretel and the breadcrumb trail,

it’d never be quite right.

There’s something extraordinary about Grandma’s cooking

that washes away the stress,

that makes the clock turn back,

that warms you from the inside out,

sunshine radiating from your stomach,

because it really is homemade magic.