Baking with nan
Nan
passes me the rolling pin, caked again
with
dollops of creamy mush. Gooey sticking
elastic
lines circle the stripy bowl’s pink insides,
the
peeling pastry breathes out, running rings
for my warm
stubby fingers to trace and avail.
I’m too
small to reach the wooden table top,
so I
stand tall on a two-stepped safety stool,
smart in
my blue bear pinny, sleeves back,
rolled
as I ought, professional, arms powdered
with
flour, some flying into my yellow curls,
turning
me prematurely grey. She laughs loud
and it
echoes all around, purple rinse bobbing.
Some
prize seeks the secret bowels of the oven
and the
malty warmth explodes out, small hands
diving
around the kitchen, spilling into corners,
until
this gusty tang of gingerbread cloaks it all.
Copyright
Vickie Johnstone, October 1, 2020
No comments:
Post a Comment
Thanks for commenting :)