poem29 Jun 2020 08:00 pm
Great-Great Grandmother’s Recipe
Beth Cato
this pie crust is not made with mere flour, salt, sugar, butter it's formed of words a magic spell echoed in blue ink on paper warped and stained I have the recipe memorized yet each time I prepare a pie I pull out the sheet each time, I read aloud to join a chorus of women some voices I cannot identify though my grandmother's cigarette-tinged rasp stands out together they scold me to trickle cold water into the dry mixture to press pebbles of butter flat between my fingertips to mix everything together but not to overwork it when people wonder why my pies taste much better than the ones from the store I only say 'it's homemade' I must refrain from telling the truth that they eat the artistry of a hundred years of ghosts that my spirit, too will gain immortality through pastry
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