how many cooks are in this kitchen anyway?

“That’s not how I would have spiced that.” 

words unbidden in the back of your mind

just a little distraction as you shake 

just a smidge more 

salt into a bubbling pot, 

cut up just one more 

clove of garlic than you planned, 

the knife feeling strangely 

heavy in your hand 

as if some other fingers 

were curled around your own

guiding.

it starts small: 

cinnamon in a savory dish 

you’d never have thought of, 

less pepper and more paprika, 

the onions caramelized perfectly, 

a thing you’d never had the patience 

for, 

your hand freezing in the air 

when you tried to turn or stir 

too soon, or moving quickly 

just in the last moments 

before a sear became 

a burned mess. 

you bought the restaurant 

in a fit of nostalgia, 

a childhood memory of sweet old

ladies who always gave you 

slightly stern expressions 

but an extra big helping of 

dessert, 

the memory of fancy plates 

with hearty meals on them, 

the mix of home and special that you’d missed out in 

adulthood, never managed to 

recreate.

but these were supposed to be 

your recipes, your way of doing things, 

your special-but-home place, and 

somehow

nothing goes quite as planned, 

a little extra dash you don’t remember 

putting in constantly on your tongue 

on the tasting spoon, 

a little flair that you can’t quite 

recognize, and if you manage 

to focus just right in the midst of 

the kitchen bustle, a little

whisper of

“it needs just a little more onion, 

but ooooh it’s going to taste so good”