我剁洋葱的时候，他和她谈话，
为他们儿子的受诫礼规划过程，听起来很熟悉，
这么多的具体细节。打着气体火焰，
我把洋葱炒到半透明。黄油发出嘶嘶声响，起泡沫，
他们仔细查看了邀请名单，都是些我从来没听说过的名字。
加上一杯意大利米，我想到精米
抓起一把高抛过去。我倒了两杯霞多丽干白葡萄酒，
一杯加入意大利肉汁烩饭，一杯倒给自己，
抿了一口，然后一口闷下。混合。
乐队，鲜花，菜单？
令人陶醉，我盯着熟悉的食谱，清楚
我要做什么：加入肉汤，一杯又一杯，直至被吸收。
加入帕尔马干酪。即可马上享用
这个词立刻抓住了我的眼睛，
但他们的交谈继续，然后他的儿子
拿过电话，和他聊起来，
而我拿着木勺子，搅拌过来搅拌过去。
While I mince an onion, he talks with her,
planning their son’s bar mitzvah, sounding
so familiar, so nuts and bolts. Turning up the gas flame,
I sauté the onion translucent. Butter sizzles, foams,
as they go over the invitation list, names I’ve never heard.
Adding a cup of Arborio, I think of white rice
thrown high in the air by the fistful. I pour
two glasses of chardonnay, one for the risotto,
one for myself, sip, then gulp. Blend.
The band, flowers, menu?
Heady, I stare at the recipe to orient myself, to understand
what I am doing: Add broth, cup by cup, until absorbed.
Add Parmesan. Serve immediately.
The word immediately catches my eye,
but their conversation continues, then his son
gets on the line and hangs up on him,
as I stir and stir, holding the wooden spoon.
