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The pork chops were ten meters thick.
The gravy was never lumpy, always totally slick. 
Grandma’s kitchen had smells found nowhere else ever.
She was fantastic with food, surprisingly witty and clever.

Her dishes were plain, blue and white, with a scene inside.
They were scrubbed thoroughly by my Uncle Malcom McBride.
He had never married, which is why we usually had a female guest.
He had seven sisters; do I need to add on the rest?

Grandma would include anyone who wanted to come in and help.
We started carrying platters of croissants and rolls as a young whelp.
Cinnamon sugar pie crust was sitting on the back porch all the time.
To get to it we walked through smells of pumpkin, sage, peach and lime.

Grandma’s pies were in place, but we knew the absolute rule.
To take one before dinner would be death to that fool.
Amid giant platters of potatoes, corn, roast beef, in this fragrant place,
We all sat down together, and waited while grandma said grace.

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