Recipes for Disaster

I make them all the same, the way
ingredients are left in my head like a routine.
An expiration date's run dry like the ketchup,
two years too old, I thought was
good on everything until this morning.

Trim the chicken.
Tear up the bread.
Heat the oil.
Uncork the wine.

The smells remind me of leftover memories
released from a carton at the back of the fridge,
previously cooked and previously enjoyed.
They have a mind to stay there,
waiting for me to notice them.

Heat the sauce.
Cook chicken until brown.
Grate the cheese.
Pour another glass of wine.

I shared something out of choice
rather than necessity, weekly dinners
and good company. No instructions
needed, I made things in my head,
where I consumed imagined flavor.

Place chicken in pan.
Cover with sauce.
Cover with cheese.
More wine.

Some things are oven-safe,
most are not. Time has a way
of overcooking moments
with unexpected silence.
It's hard to hear the timer.

Remove foil, add last minute flavor:
A dash of unanswered questions.
Patience mixed with anxiety.
Another bottle of wine.