Notes About The Poem
image from inside my mother's Mennonite Community Cookbook
MOTHER'S COOKBOOK
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The spine cracked like parched soil,
pages swollen at the edges
with spills – cinnamon, grease,
splatters of tomato sauce.
Her handwriting, a slanting vine
across lined paper: add more salt,
stir till it feels right,
Grandma swore by lard.
Faded ink blooms where tears fell,
once, beside funeral cake.
The spine breaks open like a secret told,
pages swollen with stains – cinnamon ghosts,
thumbprints of butter, a splash of burgundy bold.
Her looping script, a faded charcoal host,
maps forgotten Mondays, birthdays gone cold.
Pinch of patience, scribbled beside roast recipe~
an ingredient never bought or sold.
The binding frays where gravy pooled and dried,
a topographical map of meals that fed
more than just hunger. On the margins
her notes bloom: Add less salt; He likes this bread~
Double for grieving written between lines, implied,
the quiet alchemy where love was spread
thicker than jam on all the years inside.
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