Saucijsjes

Saucijsjes

The thing to remember about cooking with grandma is that
Nothing is exact
No measuring cups or spoons
Just dollops, scoops, and pinches
Everything is by touch and taste
Until it is right  

First divide the sausage
Six to a pound if you are feeding the family
Twelve for a party
Already I’m cheating because I use premixed sausage from the store
Roll each portion into an oblong
Ignore the fat coating your skin seeping into your pores
As sage tickles your nose
The microwave a betrayal
Of grandma frying on the stovetop
Turning rows of sausages quickly with a wooden spoon
Serving as punctuation to her story
Or meting out punishment
Pat the sausages dry
Then wrap into tidy dough packages
At least my dough is made from scratch
And tuck into a greased pan
Leaving room to expand
Baking leaves just time for a cup at the kitchen table
And a story about grandpa
Polish each brown-tinted package with butter
Serve with applesauce on the side
Watch that first bite
Or you will burn your mouth
Biting into memory  

The thing to remember about cooking with grandma is that
Nothing is exact
No measuring cups or spoons
Just dollops, scoops, and pinches
Everything is by touch and taste
Until it is right  

To Camp

To Camp

Soul sick and weary

The road to Yosemite

Promises cleansing

Never the same journey twice

Bonds renewed, joy recovered

 

This Tanka poem was inspired by our yearly (sometimes twice yearly) trek to deliver our son to church camp in Yosemite, Kentucky. He has fun with new and old friends, but it is also a very spiritual experience for him. It has been a wonder to watch him grow as a result of this experience. And both literally and figuratively, the journey to Yosemite has never been the same for us no matter how many times we travel to Camp Wa’kon-DaHo.

Mommy Truth

Mommy Truth

No

You can’t have the last cookie

It’s been a rough day, week, year

That oreo is all that stands

Between Momma and losing her fingernail grip on sanity

Do

You want to risk life as you know it

It’s been a rough day, week, year

There isn’t any wine in the fridge

But there is a stack of bills on the table and not enough money

So

You are right about hugs

It’s been a rough day, week, year

The day will come when I have lots of time and money

Give me another hug then go ahead and eat the cookie

Love

Love

Love is a carved wooden goblet

Wood darkened by age and use

Base sprawling wide, solid, unshakable

Stem spiraling upward

The generous curve of the goblet whispers stories once carved deep

now erased by the caress of countless touches

While the lip of the cup runs round endless and smooth to the mouth

The well of the cup dwells deep and dark

waiting to be completed with something rich and filling

Love is a carved wooden goblet

 

This poem was inspired by Liz Prather’s A Walk Through the Forest prompt

Artwork by Lesley Shepherd