Photo by Sergio Camalich on Unsplash
The enormous scratched, dented, silver pot sweats on the stove top,
as the angry steam spits, rattles, and lifts the lid
allowing the aroma of pinto beans, onions, garlic, and Mom’s magic to waft through the house and meet me at the front door.
My mouth waters, as I lift a spoon of the brown, nutty, salty, comforting treasure
to scald my lips and tongue, and embrace me in a warmth of love, home and wealth that far exceeded the scorch of the soup.
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