Scaloppini

It's taken four days
for the smell of chicken cutlet
to exit my apartment.
I made nine packages
about 17 lbs
over the course of two hours
the night before a family pig roast
on Labor Day Weekend
since not all who eat meat
like pork
or are lost.

The tinfoil tray
I'd selected the day prior
in a grocery aisle I'd ignored before
was perfectly sized
for my offering.
Between breading and frying
I thought to bring
horded Chinese takeout containers
the next day
so people could take leftovers
back to their refrigerators.

By the end it was a rosemary encrusted
free-for-all, green dots of oregano
littering the counter.
I'd left the pans to their own devices
and a few morsels were burnt
due to my absent tongs.
In my attempt to right error
I became my mother
eating the dark filets
to hide the evidence
spare the diners
make sure it all would be eaten.
In a few bites
I almost grew up.


Currently reading:
"Father and Son" by Larry Brown.