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Making goulash we don’t talk much, Daddy and me.
“The talking’s in the making, son,” he smiles.
I see what he means.
It’s in the knife meeting the beef,
in the dancing of potatoes as they turn in the water,
in the singing of boiling soup in the pot.
In this, we talk without words,
In the way Daddy teaches me his famous dish
and the way he hugs me when we finish.
Making goulash we don’t talk much, Daddy and me.
But everything is said.
(Ideas from Candace Pearson’s poem)
