Our Lady of Parmesan,
Oh Blessed Mother of Cheese, pray for us.
Pray for us sinners, who lick the pot of the sugga, the sweet sauce of the tomato.
In kitchen where olive oil splatters the ceiling o’er the stove, pray for us.
Where she re-heats leftover spaghetti in a frying pan with butter.
Where we are urged to eat and eat and eat again.
Pray for us,
Mother of all Artichokes, pray for us.
Oh Song of Tocchu, hear our prayer.
Food that we bleed, dreams that we crave, the blessings of salt and wine,
May they dust our foreheads, may they grease our lips.
Invoking your Saints, Nonna, and Nonu, and Great Aunt Mable, Mary DePiero and her husband Albert, the Converted, who bring us this meal in the blue light of Uncle Joe’s fish aquarium.
Savior of toast and tea, bring us peace.
Where toast has four eyes in four pats of butter, the way a father makes breakfast for his girls the only way he knows how. Give him knife but he does not spread. Forgive his error, oh Lord.
Velveeta dreams with rye bread slices crushed thin as communion wafers from the bald weight of telephone books. May we swallow the digits transferred to the bread we eat, may we number among your chosen.
Oh Mother of Peasants, lift up our hearts, cut the crust from our bread and the fat off our ham.
Remind us of Lenten Fridays and tuna with endive and oil.
Oh Blessed Mrs. Paul, rectangle fish of box and oven, of the soggy and the dried out, of citric overdose squirted from a plastic lemon with a green screw-on lid, where, underneath in the grooves, the crust of sleep grows.
Oh Saints Dorothy and Richard who toil for the fish sticks, who kneel us before the crucifix mantled in purple in a church money basket.
Let us pay homage and kiss the cold feet of the Lord.
Watch over us. Pray for our bloodied hearts and Our Lord’s sad, sweet eyes.
Palm Sunday, Holy Thursday, Good Friday.
Pilgrimage, behind our mother, to the candy counter in Shillito’s basement, choosing pastel chocolate in the shape of cross and egg and rabbit. Oh share your blessings in our Easter baskets.
Come, let us adore you. Let us wave our palms and then lay them at your feet. May you walk on us, exalted in food glorious.
Come offer psalm and song and Hosanna.
Food of our mothers, pray for us,
Lift a cup to our thirst.
The milk of salvation, delivered, pasteurized, this morn to our doorstep in the cold metal box on the side porch.
Of breaded porch chop and pot roast with gravy and lauded fried chicken, we sing.
Of the Christmas spritz cookie and your pies of Thanksgiving we sing.
Oh Mother of Stomach ache,
And Mother of Heart ache,
Pray for us,
Guide us,
Amen.
Donna Vitucci
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