Is it inherited?
Six year old me watched Grandmother
look around, take silver knife, cut into pale
yellow rectangular prism, plop a chunk into
her mouth, close her eyes,
In Aunt Julia’s presence, this never occurred,
Was it our shared secret,
Grandmother and me?
Yesterday, I told the cafeteria lady,
“Please bring me biscuits, extra butter.”
Less courageous than Grandmother,
I use blue corn pancakes, homemade bread, pasta,
excuses to eat butter, lots of golden, melted
Who eats butter on conchiglie?
I do, scooping out a tablespoon
from the butter bowl, watch it melt
in hot, drained Italian pasta from a
sprinkle on some sea salt, plop
a spoonful in my mouth, close my eyes,
Note: This poem is published in my book “You’re Gonna Eat That? Adventures with Food, Family, and Friends”. My grandmother, Mom’s mom, rarely smiled. When Mom went to the hospital to have my sister, the family story is that Grandmother fed me so many bread, butter, and sugar sandwiches, I became fat. I was two. I remember a mint patch in her backyard. She’d gather mint, boil water, and make mint tea with cream and sugar. I liked it. When Aunt Julia traveled out of town, I remember seeing Grandmother eat butter and smile. This is Grandmother’s wedding photo.