Nostalgia

Nostalgia

Whisked until light,
eggs threatened bowl's rim
yet Grandma was in control,
poured mixture into buttered pan, flame low,
skillet held above heat ...
Said they'd finish cooking
on the plate as she jellied my toast,
smothered from edge to edge
with grape jam, compliments
from vines just outside kitchen door.
Her cherry jam had chunks,
of which I'd yet to appreciate.

Aproned, she'd fill a small glass
with apple juice, go about chores,
shoes tapping wooden steps
descending to the cellar
where clothes were soaking
in rinse tub, waiting to be squeezed
through old ringer washer, 
basketed and hauled outside 
to air dry on clothes line.

Occasionally I'd hurry and eat
in order to join the fun.

Other times she'd make the beds,
ironed sheets hand-smoothed, corners tucked,
blanket folded just so in order to
be pulled up under one's chin 
if needed in the night.

Sometimes she'd sweep her carless garage,
vacuum braided area rug
where I'd play with blocks, puzzles,
read for hours, screened, pull-down door
veiling us from pesky flies.
Before noon we'd escape inside 
where lined curtains had been closed
upon sunrise, crisp morning air captured
(at least until mid-day).

Upon reflection, I don't remember 
her being much of a cook,
don't remember pancakes, french toast,
omelets for breakfast.
Evenings we ate T.V. dinners,
watched Lawrence Welk on Saturday nights;
don't recall Grandma making many deserts
or a family dinner.

I've tried to recreate her eggs;
always fail.  I can hear her instructing me
as I stood by her elbow and watched.
Have bought different pans, vintage and new,
trying to recreate the magic;
I've come close, but I guess

some things are meant for nostalgia,
remembered with love. 

by Margaret Bednar, September 23, 2019

Linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, Weekend Mini Challenge - Grandma's Kitchen"