“No,” you stopped me. “Don’t wash the pan.
 Pour off the grease all but a loving spoonful, 
 scrape the grizzly scraps loose, add herbs, a little wine
  
 or coconut milk, you’ll have a sauce, the remains 
 will sing like a choir.  “Don’t toss everything away,
 just the ballast, the dead stuff.  Select notes will float
  
 buoys to signal the deep channel, places where
 angel fish fly through water with feathery wings. 
 Snuggle into the creases of laughlines and lifelines.  
  
 Where river water and saltwater meet,
  osmotic release of energy.  Who knew?
  I didn’t even know you could cook.
  
 Now you tell me at the bottom of every pan 
  a harbor of possibility, an elixir, every moment’s 
 monsoon of miracle.  “Enjoy,” you say, “Enjoy!”