Picasso's Studio, 1944

I remember her saying a winter menu should combine
sharp and mellow –
a sort of sauté, she’d say.
A sliver of beetroot on artichoke pie
or lemon tart to slice through cold nights.
She applied movement
like brushstrokes, hard and soft,
beating egg emulsion, coaxing pastry to puff.
In spring, the table teetered with tulips and books.
Cheese is the corpse of milk, she’d scoff,
and give her brie a fond look.
Pinned above the chopping board
was a postcard of a studio, its crayons like asparagus.