My parents taught me to cook.
They taught me to underseason chicken
and overcook pasta.
They taught me to burn eggs to the pan.
They taught me to ignore my emotions.
They taught me to boil broccoli
until it lost its crunch.
They taught me to make lumpy mashed potatoes.
They taught me to hold myself accountable
for their emotions,
to abandon myself in the name of family.
They taught me to ignore my inner voice
and listen only to theirs.
They taught me to keep ketchup in the cupboard.
They taught me to put pineapple on pizza.
And that’s just how it was.
Until I went to my friend’s house for dinner,
and the broccoli crunched.
The meat tasted of salt and pepper,
garlic, paprika, onion powder.
She told me about her parents.
She’d had dinner with them a few nights ago.
Her mum calls her just to chat.
Her dad texts her most days,
she doesn’t always reply,
but she smiles when his name
appears on her screen.
Sometimes she stays at their house,
just because she likes being home.
With them.
And the pasta was the perfect al dente.
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