My mother is mystified by the salad spinner,
mesmerized by its whir and endless spin,
suspicious that it could do a better job
than her hands that know vegetables so well,
hands that know how to wash the silt from greens
– fenugreek, mustard, amaranth, bathua, choliay –
hands that know how to blot the wet from vein and blade,
how to fan the leaves on faded shawls in the sun.
Now these hands learn to assemble
and disassemble this new thing, these plastic parts.
She watches the merry-go-round
cull moisture from thin air, from tender growth,
marvels at the pool of water in its base,
excess and unwanted.
She fans the leaves on faded shawls in the sun
and boxes this thing that has replaced ritual.
She tells me, this salad spinner can only do so much.