Blessed be the Lord, the creator of cinnamon,
Lord of sour glistening berries with a furry after taste
and seeds that get caught between my teeth,
red chili peppers I shouldn’t be eating
and ripe, perfect apricots I can only have when I’m home.

Blessed be the Lord, the providore, the farmer,
the creator of the mystery that turns milk into cheese,
the one who whispered the secret to the shepherd:
try this, you will like it. Like me,
when I offer a taste of the sauce on my spoon,
She says: pick this, try this.
Put a little bit of this and a little bit of that together,
see, She says, I saw and it was good.

I let the berries form out of red,
I allowed the grapes to take shape in purple,
I exploded little brown beans
/bitter dots of brown/ for my enjoyment.
I, the mother and father of more greens
than you can put a name to,
I say: eat in my name.

Blessed be the Lord of each mouthful,
blessed be the Lord, the creator of cinnamon.
The one who never said some shall have
and some shall have not,
the giver of sunshine and rain, milk and honey.
Lest we forget who is boss, eat
like it’s the last meal of your life.

~ 19 January 2012