Kathleen O’Toole: Half Italian

The brain’s hard-wired with the impulse to feed

when given the chance, and it’s why I always double

the garlic in any recipe. The kitchen behind Nonna’s

store always smelled of garlic and aged provolone,

but Sundays were drenched with it, especially 

right after church.  She cooked early and I’d find

any excuse to dig the tin trowel into the sacks

of dried lentils and fagiole beans, thrilled to feel

them clattering − the clinking of a cartoon king’s

gold. Years later I found my way back to the empty

row house, hoping to recover that storefront’s hold:

salami-scented floorboards, shelves stocked with tins

of olive oil and anchovies.  I only managed to pry

the numbers 4 – 1 – 9 from the cracked door frame,

to wrap them in burlap inside her old trunk. Now 

nothing renders the essence of Domenica’s place

like crushing home-grown basil for pesto Genovese,

pressing garlic into a bowl of extra virgin oil, twice

the measure, plus one clove just for the pleasure. 

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Copyright 2019 Kathleen O’Toole. From This Far by Kathleen O’Toole, published by Paraclete Press.