UNMEASURED

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Granny’s recipe card is splattered with butter,  
the ink blurred where her thumb pressed too soon~  
butter, sugar, flour—all accounted for.  

What’s missing is the way she hummed  
off-key hymns between sifted clouds,  
how the kitchen held its breath  
when she cracked an egg one-handed.  

The cinnamon? Yes.  
But not the weight of her sigh  
when the dough resisted,  
nor the way her wedding band  
left a faint silver streak in the batter.  

The streusel is just crumbs and brown sugar,  
unless you count the dust of her laughter  
as she scolded me for sneaking bites 
of  raw dough between my teeth.  

Bake at 375º, the card says,  
but not how long to wait  
after the oven light goes dark,  
after the scent stops being hers  
and becomes just a memory.

*If you'd like to read the accompanying memoir vignette, you may do so at poetrysoup.com/short_stories/intangible_ingredients_13578

12th gradegrandmothernostalgiafree verse

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