In my momma's kitchen
In my momma's kitchen chicken fries in an iron skillet. Flame licks the bottom. Oil pops. Skin crisps. Over the stove the fan sucks up steamy smoke. On the back burner greens drown a ham hock and slow cook. The lids clanks slightly from steam heat and white vinegar. In granny's black pot, tall, spotted, a dent in the left handle, corn on the cob bobs and boils. Pale yellow kernels plump up and deepened to butter gold. This lid, too, clanks, slightly struggling to contain the fresh from the garden feast.
In my momma's kitchen corn bread bakes up. Meal, sugar, salt, eggs blended to down home perfection, bakes in the oven, smells up the kitchen, wafts up the stairs. Yes, down home cooking. Macaroni ad cheese bubbles, too. Gooey, zesty tastes- melted together- noodles, pepper, Colby, cheddar- cook up right.
In my momma's kitchen pumpkin pie cools on the sill. Cherry pie with frilly edges and fork-poked crust, chills in the fridge. Both wait desperately for vanilla bean ice cream, a rich and luscious adornment.
In my momma's kitchen tall water glasses swelter sweat beads that drip down ribbed side. Cold cubes slowly liquefy waiting on that first blast of effervescent Pepsi sloshing down.
IN my momma's kitchen plates and forks and knives and spoons clink against each other, the glass table top, and serving dishes handed down from the great grands. White napkins flap their delicate corners as summer slips its warm breath through the open window screen, passed white curtains scalloped in pale rose eyelet.
In my momma's kitchen we gather , pray, and eat.
Love found in abundance in my momma's kitchen.