Heaven On A Plate
Sunday morning before church,
freshly painted pink lips,
pearls adorn her neck,
perfectly coifed hair,
but, she’s still in her slip,
so as not to mess her dress.
With long, self-manicured fingers,
she sifts the flour,
adding a scoop of Crisco,
adeptly, she massages the mealy mixture,
slowly adding buttermilk,
until a soft, dough ball forms.
She plops it on waxed paper,
rolling it flat, lightly sprinkling flour
so as not to stick,
expertly, she extracts perfect flat disks,
and drops them side by side
onto the pan that waits.
Into a preheated oven they bake,
she slips on her dress,
slides into her shoes,
she glimpses at her reflection,
the luscious aroma of baking bread
fills my grandmother’s house.
She removes them from the oven,
hot, moist, and flaky,
she puts one on a plate,
adding a little butter and jam,
she places it before me,
Heaven on a plate.
© 2009 Connie Kuhn All Rights Reserved