Onion Skins (or huevos haminados) Curling brown leaves a pile of discards But I see treasure scraps of parchment for telling an old story The onions emerge shiny and white brown coats left behind stripped by a masked man with kind eyes hands the color of onion skins who does not look surprised when I ask for a bag of the leavings —I’ll take an onion too, I tell him I want him to know I know grocers can't make money on a bag of onion skins and air —Come back on the weekend, he says and I can give you more He wants to help me — does he know? I hear an echo of Spain in his voice so perhaps he shares my secret We have survived this plague, my man and I, passed over at least this time So I have ventured out searching for a few more provisions for this season this day this evening's meal of remembering Betrayal and death and rebirth or at least deliverance endings and beginnings two stories intertwined two traditions but hope and gratitude either way I almost forgot about the eggs Now back home they are swimming Floating in a swamp of onion skins chips of garlic oil slick on top They will emerge transformed by water and fire their shells burnished deep russet whites gone nut brown yellows a deeper gold and inside the ancient taste of smoke and tears —Passover/Easter 2021
Blair Kilpatrick is a psychologist and musician in Berkeley, California. She is the author of Accordion Dreams: A Journey into Cajun and Creole Music (U. Press Mississippi, 2009). She was the recipient of the first annual Slovenian Literary Award (2019) and is currently working on a family roots memoir. In her free time, she enjoys baking bread, playing the Cajun accordion with her fiddler husband, and visiting their adult children in Toronto and New York. Her website is www.blairkilpatrick.com
So beautiful, and knowing of another is the most generous sort of love.
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Oh dear Nancy–thank you so much!
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