I’ve solved the problem
with his Pork Chops Foyot.

That you can do chicken,
you just have to slice the fillets

through first. Then dust them
with flour and brown them

in butter. I watch my hands
use the tools he left me,

the lemon juicer I gave him,
and the white casserole dish

with the pale blue rim so old and so
French. A million tiny cracks

in the glaze. I slice the onions thin
on his mandoline. Even my hands

are smaller versions of his.
Last night, our boy stirred

the translucent circles in the pan
with such concentration. The butter

teasing. He didn’t want to miss it.
The stages of caramelization.

The sweetening, so slow.
Then suddenly golden.