Challenging Poetry

stuff

we called it stuff,
filling the crock-pot
by smell and instinct
a bit of this,
a bit of that,
some extra tomatoes
or a can of something or other
to complement the contents
of several leftover containers
that hadn’t been in the fridge
long enough that Dad
used them up.

it always smelled different—
sweet or sour
or curried or barbequed,
depending on what
our week had brought to the table,
and we laughed
as we added sour cream
or mustard or a handful of thyme—
to the smell. we stirred
and left it for hours, simmering
and filling the church
with leftover odor,

until church was over
and the potluck began,
and they asked us what it was,
and told us how good it was
and asked us for the recipe,
and we couldn't answer,
we could only say . . .
stuff.

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