I remember momma baking cookies,
the big green bowl holding the flour and sugar and this and that, and the sound of the wooden spoon scraping the sides of the bowl, round and round.
Brown, prenatal cookies rolled out on a flat surface waiting to be defined into some animal form. A rabbit, maybe, or a duck. Awaiting the downward thrust of the metal form, to learn their shape.
Then popped into the heat of the oven against their will, enduring the transition from pliable to rigid in this formative period of their lives. Pulled out to rest upon their cookie sheet, fully formed.
What have I become, after the gathering of my ingredients, the stirring, the kneading, the cutting forces of culture and the heat of debate? A lamb or a wolf?
I still see her ghost.
She's at the woodstove cooking and baking.
Perfumes still roam the air.
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
baking peanut butter cookies, created in haste
salivating in anticipation of their sugary taste
oven cannot heat up fast enough to satisfy me
I eat a couple of raw ones, two or maybe three.
There was a baker named Blake
he needed to bake a cake
within an hour
he had no flour
he knew he'd made a mistake!
baking is her super power
she makes scones and cupcakes by the hour
her name is Jan and baking is her game
in our small town, it brings her fame
give her flour, sugar, baking soda and salt
you cannot slow her down, she does not halt
she bakes up cakes, cookies, pies and such
we all love her products very much
yesterday she made lemon muffins that were a delight
today, not one remains, there are none in sight
her neighbors are thrilled with her, as are her kin
we all visit when baking smells come wafting in
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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
Her secret ingredient is love.
Grandma doesn’t have the most glamorous kitchen.
Her baking always chef worthy.
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
Grandma's kitchen was always inviting :
tea, a smile, the smell of something baking.
The sun was an ever welcome guest,
time spent there was without a doubt the best.
Even for her favourite li'l Tasmanian devil
Grandma knew how to make the mundane special.
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
By Poet: "LOVE, just four letters makes a very powerful word."
Have you looked inside of a store?
Filled from the ceiling to the floor,
with pretty gifts on every shelf.
Every aisle has more and then some more.
I see red everywhere for myself,
a pretty rose red bedspread for the elf.
Valentine's Day is full of love.
I will make red cornbread for thyself.
I am looking for a card like a dove,
not one showing a boxing glove.
This one will make him really smile,
as it shows my fun and true love.
Valentine's shopping went on for awhile,
now get home and decorate in style.
Cooking and baking for a great dinner,
will make him happy and be all worthwhile.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cinnamon-dusted,
dough remembers Mother's hands~
warm as her embrace.
Pressed between childhood tales,
each sweet cookie sings of home.
Sorgham swirls slow,
dark as wintertime at six.
the oven hums low~
patient, like my grandmother
caroling hymns in her sleep.
Cookies crowd the rack
still soft at the edges where
time hasn’t touched them.
Bite by bite the year unwinds~
memories blend into space.
Today I did some baking,
Though the holiday’s not yet,
But there is no mistaking
Rules that I will not forget.
Ingredients are measured
And utensils are at hand.
For this recipe I’ve treasured,
Everything must go as planned.
As I dust the dough with flour
And my rolling pin’s in play,
I lose track of time; each hour
Seems to slowly slip away.
These same cookie cutters used to
Be my grandma’s; now they’re mine
And I think she’d be amused to
See her recipe still shine.
I am only halfway finished
But I’m glad to take a break.
Though my skills have not diminished,
There’s a lot more left to bake.
Baking bacon tis a terrible sin,
regardless of the pain I am in.
I'll fry till I die,
with grease in my eye,
and blisters and boils on my skin!
His joy shone while sweet baking and icing with me,
shone on me, him and our cat for he was just three.
apples
reddish yellow
falling tumbling rolling
freshly baking tasty sweetest
lovely
I open the oven door
to a blast of heat
and hot bread bulging
out of a high tin, brown, crusty
and ready to be taken out.
That smell wafts across
seventy years to when I can
remember bread being delivered
in a horse and cart.
Carrying a big
wicker basket full of hot bread,
the baker would run
house to house whilst his horse
ambled along at a pace
in perfect sync with the bakers
progress along the street.
Weekday mornings
I would wait out front
and rush the hot bread
inside for my mother to make me
sandwiches for lunch.
Mum always complained
that the bread was too hot
for cutting. I had a steaming
slice smothered in butter
before I left for school.
Big, thick, uneven slices
of bread holding metwurst
or cheese or peanut butter
greeted me when I opened
my lunchbox at school.
Bread was never better.
Nearing eighty, I keep
baking bread, writing poems,
as if trying to recapture
those pleasures still steaming
in the past before they go.
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