A cook never goes into the kitchen without wearing her apron. (quote by my Mother)
scent of hearth
stitched in morning light
apron’s cloth~
sewn with pride
fabric keeps the memories~
threads hold dreams of home
sturdy cloth
worn by gentle hands
drapes the waist
soft as lace~
each fold a prayerful whisper
faith sewn into seams
daily grace
inside apron’s seams
hands knead hope
truth rises
kitchen hearth, gentle chapel
apron lifts the soul
a related memoir vignette can be read at: poetrysoup.com/short_stories/talking_aprons_13664
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the fabric remembers her hands~
floured fingerprints on crimson petals,
the knot at her waist pulled tight
as she turned from the oven’s glow.
heat curls the edges,
fraying the green leaves
where gravy once splattered~
a stain, a story.
Mother wore it like armor~
against time,
against hunger,
against the silence
of an empty kitchen.
Now it hangs,
a ghost of cinnamon and cloves,
still holding the shape
of her laughter.
paint on my apron
shes my prettiest canvas
made by my sister
Here's a more detailed approach
you don't need to be advised or coached
our behaviours
the love language we use
us together is a lovely mood
actively listening
trying to understand
showing concern
just holding hands
a kiss as a reference
understanding her needs
knowing her preference
the act of pursuing
with the intention of affection
being consistent in each
and every direction
nonbelligerency
48 minutes is
2880 seconds
Cryostat to
materials science,
plasma physics,
and reactor design
Terms that describe
Fusion decency
they had argued over the taste of sweetbreads
with her not willing to taste it
.So he said his wife had a different story.
He made mention of both price and referenced it to
the taste of chicken: she'd bite!
"She said I thought the waiters name was
Thymus!" " he said, who is Thymus?"Dolce Bap;
the high level of anticipation, show stopping caliber
The taste of Thymus"
my paint apron has so many colors
it looks like a fascinating Miro design
splotches, dabs and finger tips of paints
blues, reds, oranges, silvers, a bit of blue
they are blended beautifully
put onto this apron one at a time
smeared and swooshed by my fingers
or sometimes a thin paint brush
my apron looks like a designer’s fabric
I have had many compliments on it
people ask where they can buy one
they can’t
it was made by my sister
decorated by me one splotch at a time
while I sit contented, painting
a work in progress
Blackberry flowers
Lilac petals
Granny's kitchen apron
8 soft boiled eggs peeled
2 cup of cream cheese
1/4 cup of heavy cream
41/4 of melted butter
1/3 chopped mushrooms
3 tablespoon of minced garlic
1/4 cup of dehydrated onions
3 egg yolks
1/2 cup of flaked steamed salmon
4 tablespoon of chopped dill
2 tablespoon of lemon juice
1 tablespoon of cumin
1 tablespoon of cayenne pepper
1/4 of diced peeled and seeded
Cucumber
1/2 cooked chopped bacon
1/4 parmesan cheese dried
1/2 tablespoon of apple cider vinegar
16 slices of procuttio 2x2 inch
16 slices of sliced Swiss cheese 2x2 inch
16 slices of rolled puff pastry
About 5 inches by five inches
( Cut off access after egg washing and filling)
3 egg and 1/4 cup of water egg wash
Center the pastry dough
Add procuttio
Top with Swiss
Center egg
In a bowl
Cream the cheese , cream, butter
Add rest of ingredients mix smooth
Using a spatula or a piping bag
Cover the area around the egg
Top with mm Swiss and procuttio
Use egg wash and add top layer
And using a fork seal the product
Trimming the edges
Bake until golden brown
Serve at room temperture
Suddenly, blocks of cold rain swiftly came.
Striking the roof in such a peculiar way.
Next, the thunder came pounding.
Like a mad drummer on bad cocaine.
The silence came next- like a dead snake under a rusty rake
Its tongue resting heavily on the apron of Eden.
Me4You
say what?
Cajuin Sookie
ya'll know this Won
Get my Oysta from
deh cheasepeake
same like
the wonz in
san Francisco bay
take both dos wons
mix em all
together
can't have em
any otta way
my pile of Bay-Bay Oysta'z
me and disk Gall
take my gloved hand
shuck'em reel fast
put the oysta in the gal
that aint no seagul no
my gallon pail is full
take my oysta to the window
weigh em'
up my gallon pale is full
I've been
shuckin in
the chicken coop
got mo' select
than premiums
shuckin in the chhicken coop
fast shuckin man
that what the lady likes
Apron, Apron,
Field's Feat Show;
Lucy, Robbie, ..... Grandpa, .... Knows!
I look at that old picture hanging stately on the wall
Old Gray-haired Granny’s apon, the glue that stuck it all
It’s faded, almost white, as the years battered the brown
Days are few, indeed, when grandma’s apron wasn’t around
I know that spot on her bosom, where I lay my little head
That apron wiped away many a tear that stained every
thread
It did its duty as a blanket that kept little babies warm
A pad, to hold a coffee pot at breakfast on an early morn
A flag to scatter the chickens from the old weathered door
Carried eggs to the kitchen, lifted tea pitchers, pots, pan galore
It became a grip to open a jar, never seemed to strain
Even doubled as an umbrella to keep off a summer rain
Just an old apron, the fabric stained and rough
It was the tool of all tools, in her world good enough
Tattered from custom
slightly stained
her old apron lay in a corner
idle
Each stain
gains life
used as a mitten
for oven roasts
apple tarts
carried outside on the back-porch
to cool down
a handkerchief
to wipe off grubby faces
a solace for spoilt tears
She bundled in it
loads of black figs
juicy peaches
ripe tomatoes
legumes from the garden
fresh eggs and
sometimes
baby chicks cheeping
to our delight
It was a purse
a clothes-pegs basket
A glove around her hands
to warm them in winter
she slipped it on
each morning to protect
her clothes
and shy little me
from strangers
she only took it off
when she
slept….
When I was just a small tot
I remember lying on my Grandmother’s lap
Face down in her apron of old sack cloth
Scents of her cooking ingrained in its depth
I was carried off to a peaceful slumber
Those are times I fondly remember.
She rocked babies from her children of seven
On an old straight back chair we thought was heaven
All the while still sweetly singing
An old lullaby song that’s still ringing
In my memories yet
Sundays we gathered around our grandparent’s table
Watching her use that old apron
To take hot pans from a cast iron stove
To us, no better food could be served
Than what Grandmothers’ hands made with love.
She gathered eggs, and vegetables from her garden
Feeding the chickens with the corn gathered
Up in the folds, and the bottom
Of that old sackcloth apron she wore .
Grandmothers over the years have done the same
Though memories fade over time it seems
This memory for me is one clear and sweet
I look forward to that time we’ll meet
In Heaven’s kitchen with loved ones we know
Eager to see Grandmother in that old apron she wore.
©?Deborah M Kelly
Aug 2021
Susannah Wesley’s Apron
No pilgrimage to Israel;
No cloistered cell;
No holy retreat.
Not with ten tumbling children
rumbling through the house.
Despite the chaos and noise,
the never-ending grind of
making ends meet,
the demands of Motherhood.
She made time to talk with God.
Under her own ‘Temple of Meeting’
fashioned from her simple apron
draped over her head, she prayed.
In that holy place, like Moses in the desert,
She met with God.
3/4 cups brown sugar
1/4 cups honey
1/4 cups soy sauce
4 Tablespoons ground ginger
4 Tablespoons garlic powder
4 Tablespoons cayenne
1/2 cups lemon juice
3 Tablespoons of spiced rum
mix together and rub on a whole dry chicken
allow to marinade for 3 hours.
bake at 350 degrees until done.
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