At my house we tango
while frying potatoes—
it shortens the cooking time.

Larissa, now seven, leads
humming a tango slightly off key
and tells me to turn my face

in the opposite direction
at a certain step.
She does it with ease

but I flounder.
We stop to stir the potatoes.
Let’s waltz now, she says,

swinging her left arm around me.
She hums “The Blue Danube”
and whirls me about.

The potatoes sizzle and pop.
Would you like to break the eggs
over them now, I ask.

Sure, she says, and adds them
with a flair that equals her tango.
Her almond eyes sparkle.

I set the table and fill the plates.
Delicious, she says.
Tango potatoes and waltz eggs.