Kluski

Have you ever heard of Kluski? It's a thin noodle that my mother would make. Sometimes that pasta was used in soup But fried with butter in a pan...was better than cake. I used to help her in the kitchen My small face covered with flour The dough itself was simple to make She could do it in less than an hour. Mom used to let me roll out the dough And then she'd roll it some more. I never got to cut the dough Because she would tell me the water to pour. The thin strips that she cut Were not necessarily the most even in size. That was part of the mystery in taste Her own cooking secret...my mother was so wise. She'd boil the dough for a few minutes Then strain them onto a board to dry. The aroma of those drying noodles Made my mouth water and stomach cry. I knew we'd have Kluski for dinner As a dish on the side. Whenever I got some on my fork I really opened wide. She always knew that it was my favorite So she would give me a little more. It didn't matter that my other brothers Saw preferential treatment and got sore. But those noodles were so tasty Buttered up and fried in a big pan The aroma, the texture, the flavor As pasta it was more than grand. Kluski was the food of the gods I enjoyed then ever so much. Those noodles are not what I miss now But how they were made with my mother's loving touch.