by Gary Grossman
Not really noodles, Pesach--
a week of remembered
sacrifice—sure, the cellophane
wrapper read pareve for
Passover. Bland and chewy,
texture like old camel saddles.
Not for eating plain, or even
topped with moguls of parmesan
cheese, but drowned in butter, egg,
sugar, pineapple, and cinnamon—
then baked at 350 in Gramma’s
rectangular cake pan, it melds
into a Pesach kugel to die for.
Pareve kugel, my people’s
offering for unleavened dessert.
My tongue buds say “sweet, umami,
a hint of salt—the perfect foil
for 7AM dark roast after
an evening with four cups.
and the sacred act of living
in the here and now. This coffee,