Anna
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She chopped and mixed from scratch
in wooden bowls with wooden spoons
by pinch & dash, past twilight
as if Edison had not been born.
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Her modest dress of flowered print,
ankle low under full apron,
opaque hose in sturdy black heels
in the simple kitchen where she reigned.
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A quiet woman, never idle,
small even in a child’s vision
her stature brave as five sons,
dedicated as brothers Maccabee.
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Memory laughs at recipes never needed,
root ingredients: potato & onion, words
unable to duplicate homemade goodness.
Who can find a BubbeGrandmother [Yiddish]. like mine?
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I still hear sizzle as Bubbe spooned
thin circles into hot oil, smell
rich flavors of poor old-world folk
tastes sociable as sour cream & applesauce.
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At the rear of a row, in that dimly lit kitchen
without granite counters or Cuisinart,
she fried latkes crisp, darkened in heavy skillets,
her hair, pepper & salt like the iron.
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Grandchildren rewarded with the un-plated best,
with fortified bodies, voices sang,
flames danced and dreidels spun,
renewing freedom’s victory.
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We shared a Festival of Light.
