kitchen elegy

oh, a, most beautiful a, do you remember that we talked once about the love we both shared, our love for kitchens? I thought then: somebody should write an Ode to the Kitchen. Now I found its Elegy. even our teas are here, the first one that I made for you here, the rose black tea you drink now out of a cup that has a crooked handle.

O, vechi şi dragi bucătării de vară,
Simt iar în gură gust suav de-amiază
Şi în tristeţea care mă-nconjoară
Din nou copilăria mea visează:
Ienibahar, piper prăjit pe plită,
Peşti groşi ce-au adormit în sos cu lapte,
Curcani păstraţi în zeama lor o noapte
Spre o delicateţe infinită,
Ciuperci cât canapeaua, în dantele,
icre cu bob bălos ce ochiu-şi cască,
Aluaturi tapisate crescând grele
Într-o dobitocie îngerească,
Moi miezuri de ficaţi în butoiaşe
De ou de melc, înlăcrămate dulce,
Mujdeiuri ireale, şunci gingaşe
Când sufletu-n muştar vrea să se culce,
şi-n ceainice vădindu-şi eminenţa
Prin fast de irizări şi toarte fine
Ceaiuri scăzute pînă la esenţa
Trandafirie-a lucrului în sine!

Emil Brumaru (Elegie)

O, summer kitchens, cherished, old, and dear,
I taste again the vesper's dainty snacks,
And in the sadness that surrounds me here,
My childhood dreams again of scrumptious stacks:
Of juniper and peppercorn with bite,
Fat fish that fell asleep in saucy cream,
Whole turkeys marinated overnight
Until their tenderness is quite extreme—
The mushrooms—sofa-sized and dressed in lace,
Fish eggs with slimy grain in their vicinity,
Upholstered doughs which rise with heavy grace,
In an angelic, stupefied bovinity,
Soft liver bits in barreled juicy splendor,
Glazed by the sweetest tears of snail egg custard,
Surreal garlic sauce, and hams so tender
Your soul will want to go to sleep in mustard,
While teapots proudly show through beamy glass
With iridescent pomp, so very slick,
Fine teas boiled down until the very last
And rosy essence of das Ding an sich!

(Elegy, trans. Cristina Hanganu-Bresch)