Sunday Morning

I always knew it was Sunday.
Not by a talk-show, text-message,
movie, or other place to go -
things foreign to my novice notions.
It was more to do with smells and tastes,
sounds and scenes and lots of feelings.
Like the wafting sweetness jarring
me from my dreams to a sleepy grope
toward the kitchen , swiftly morphed
to bulging eyes for Grandma's kettle cakes.
"It's the buttermilk", she proclaimed,
"and the secret way you knead the dough."
Many Sunday mornings followed
with the same bugle call of clanging pots and pans,
me up and scurrying to learn the hidden secret:
flour sifted to a grain, buttermilk soured
not too long, water with just enough,
a smidgen of salt, fingers gently burrowing
through the gooey mush.
Ans like sorcery from the black-ironed kettle
out flipped the golden cakes.
For years I preteneded the secret,
(my props fancy gadgets and store-bought mix),
when came a day I recalled devouring
the scrumptious cakes, and Grandma,
eyes sharp to my affection, her face awash
with rosy smile which seemed to glow
ever brighter,
with every cake
I ate.


Copyright 2008 Francis Don Daniels