Roazemarynblêd

Roazemarynblêd

Roazemaryn is in probatum, sei er tsjin har.
Roazemarynblêd.
Roazemaryntwiichjes.
Deroerhinne sprinkelje en it dêr lekker lizze litte,
yn ’e hel.
Want roazemaryn is net as oliifoalje,
en ek net as stiensâlt,
it is sels net as de tiid fan it opsletten sitte by twahûndert graden
efter in glês dat mei it doel makke is
om dizze boel te sieden.
Roazemarynbledsjes binne net as snippere sipels,
Ast se gewurde litst, wurde se knapperich
Mar ast se trochbakst, rôlje se om
Rêchlings.
Se kinne de hel wjerstean.
Komme der ûnskansearre út.
Sei er tsjin har.
Sit der mar net oer yn.

Ierappels sûnder roazemaryn
binne as de tiid sûnder minsken.
Dat sei er tsjin har,
tiid
sûnder
minsken.
Sy krige samar ynienen in kaam,
sy woe de tiid trochbakke,
’m knapperich meitsje,
of ’m op in leech fjurke sette
te soarreljen.

Yn dizze sauna ierappels,
harren rêgen bedutsen, harren buken útstutsen,
harren skilen skroeiend,
knapperjend, iepengeand,
mar hieltyd fêsthâldend oan de kearn
tsjok en sêft.
It rûkt goed mei roazemaryn en al it guod
dat er deryn smyt út fleskes en potsjes.
He woe eins net alles der samar yn smite
sûnder nei te tinken
mar hy kin it net helpe.
No mar gewoan trochsette.

Net yn de oven stean litte
ast ’m útsetst, sei er,
dan brânt it oan.
Sûnder nei de tiid te sjen
of troch it glês te gluorjen,
noch altyd beslein mei siedende stoom
fan de oalje dy’t der tsjinoan plakt,
pakt se de ovenwant,
teart ’m om de râne fan de skaal hinne
en hellet de skat út de hel wei
om in stikje fan de himel te priuwen.

Oerset troch Ate Grypstra

Rozemarijnblad

Rosemary does the trick, he told her.
Rozenmarijnblad.
Rosemary sprigs.
Sprinkle on top and leave it idling there,
in hell.
For rosemary is not like olive oil,
nor is it like rock salt,
it’s not even like time locked up at two hundred degrees
behind a glass purposely made
to cook this stuff.
Rosemary is not like chopped onions,
if you let it be it’s crunchy
But if you bake it hard it rolls over
belly-up.
It can resist hell.
Emerges whole.
He told her.
You can put your mind at rest.

Potatoes without rosemary
are like time without people.
That’s what he told her,
time
without
people.
She blushed without warning,
she wanted to bake time hard,
make it crunch,
or put it on low heat to simmer,
fry it.

Inside this sauna potatoes,
their backs covered, their bellies out,
their peel scorching,
crunching, opening up,
but still holds on to its core
thick and soft.
It smells good with rosemary and all the stuff
he throws in from bottles and jars.
He wouldn’t want to just throw everything in
without heed
but he can’t help it.
Just keep at it now.

Do not leave it in the oven
when you turn it off, he said,
it would burn.
Without looking at the time
or peering behind the glass
still stained with fierce steam
from the oil clinging to it,
she grabs the oven glove,
curls it round the dish’s edge
and brings the treasure out from hell
to taste a bit of heaven.

Translated by Claudia Gauci