Perfect Pie

A poem for my mother

Image credit: Pixabay

Salt tang of dough 
on my tongue,
wooden clank and 
thud of cherry rolling pin,
hiss of flour on board
as pastry slides —

roll, roll, turn,
roll, roll, turn. 
The scent of peeled 
apples and cinnamon,
window frosted with steam. 
Reflected in glass
I see my mother,
rolling dough,
sprinkling flour,
sharing secrets.
The chemistry behind
perfect pastry, 
she said,
could also apply 
to life —

don’t over-mix,
handle gently,
avoid stretching 
too thin —

start out hot and fast,
then slow the oven down.
I lower my head, 
swallow a lump,
fold the disk of dough 
over the pin and 
lift across a Pyrex plate —

a wedding gift,
chipped and stained from
sixty years and 
two generations
of pies —

the only piece of her
I have.

If you enjoyed this piece, please consider clicking the little green heart or sharing with your social media peeps.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.