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.


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