Claiming Mine

Just because my tools are not iron and steel
Does not make them weak.
Just because my work space is here
In the house,
In the kitchen,
Does not make it less sacred.
I would not go
Willy-nilly to your garage
And re-place your carefully
Planned out arrangements.
My spices and potions are no less valuable
Than secateurs and hammers.

Just because the meal itself
Does not last as long as the table
It is served on
Does not make it temporary.
Meals linger in the memory,
In your history,
Longer than a lifetime,
Passed generation to generation.

“Boy could your mamma, gramma, great-gramma, cook!
Honey, the goodness she made!”

Do not dismiss my skills.
They spring from the heart.

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