Onion Tears

Onion Tears

The onions make me cry - twice.

The first tears come
as I slice their solid flesh
into curved white fingers.
I know that a candle flame
will burn away volatile oils
released by the sharp knife
and rising toward my eyes.
But I forgot
and now it is too late.
I can only stop the tears by
finishing the task.

I wash my hands,
and splash cool water into my eyes
rinsing away the tears.
Then I stir the onions
over low heat
with a little oil
and a dash of salt
(this time not from my eyes).

I let them cook
while I turn my attention
to foods of a friendlier persuasion,
only occasionally
giving them a stir
as they turn from
bright white
to a duller hue
gradually
becoming more yellow
then darker
around the edges,
their sharp smell
mellowing
as they cook,
until finally
their soft, squishy
earthy-bronze color
tells me
they are
finally
the sweet
caramelized
almost-jam
that brings me
tears of delight
when I eat them.


[inspired by the task of "melting" onions to put on a rustic onion tart for this weekend's potluck.]