Pour a cheap Malbec into the frying pan. You scrape the morning away from the cast iron surface with a spoon, beneath the boiling glaze. Vapor smells like burning oak and chocolate roses with a fatty roundedness to the scent. You can feel humidity in your fingers, it seeps into bone and joint—inflammation and ache. You have your mother’s hands—at the cusp of an arthritic wither. You have seen the future in bird-wrists and bone sculpture. She was the first artist you knew—bone china canvas, a painter’s palette of soy sauce, cumin, and ginger. Medium of rice and egg wrappers, the undertow folded into edible origami.
Cortisone in your mother’s neck