Tag Archives: Family

Liquid Yolk

 

Liquid Yolk

He holds the hot egg in one hand, turning it as he taps it gently with the knife edge in a perfect horizontal line, and lifts the top off like a skull cap to reveal the molten golden lava of the half-congealed yolk. It spills out in a river as he moves his spoon around the shell to remove the white in one solid unblemished half-oval—shining, still steaming from the boiling water it has so recently been surrounded by. 

The egg rests on the square of toast and is soon joined by its equally perfect other half, mashed
onto the toast to be lightly sprinkled with salt, dusted with black pepper. Then, the final perfect ingredient to this gracefully executed breakfast favorite—one delicate sprinkle of cider vinegar from the tiny stoppered glass vinegar cruet and the neat slicing with fork and knife, the lifting to lips, the dabbing of yolk from the plate with another triangle lifted  from the toast plate.

The final smacking of lips and the long satisfied sigh as he places his knife and fork across his empty plate. My father, a large man with work-hardened hands, is like an artisan in his neat and graceful maneuvering of the utensils, his napkin blotting any errant egg from his lips before raising, at last, the coffee cup to his lips to wash it all down.

Soft boiled eggs, toast and coffee. Bright yellow, white and brown are the colors of the morning as the school bell rings and I am off in a mad dash to slide into my seat in my schoolroom across the street before its last peal.  This memory of my father eating soft boiled eggs was early morning poetry that I have not forgotten half a century and more later. It is the little things, the small beauties, that stick like liquid yolk to our memories.

 

 

For dVerse Poets prompt: food

My father put vinegar on everything from cabbage to eggs. I loved to watch him eat, for it was at the table that he was transformed from  a hard-working farmer-rancher with wheat in his pants cuffs to a cultured gentleman with impeccable table manners. In this prose poem I try to replicate my father’s artistry in disassembling a soft-boiled egg. The cruet above is one of the few objects I claimed when I went to pack up our house after my father’s death. I still use it for cider vinegar, and think of my dad every time I open the cupboard and see it on the shelf.

Ashton Wildwood Park

This is the entrance to the  Ashton Wildwood Park that has now been dedicated to  my former brother-in-law Denis Wilcox who passed away a few months ago. We had the dedication for it on  Friday. The dedication arch has not yet been completed, but here is the stone marking the area that he maintained for so many years. He was also on the conservation board for the park.


Above is a photo of some of his kids and grandkids at the dedication

And a photo of the whole crew: kids, their spouses, grandkids and former sis-in-law. 

For Tree Square

Why Bakeries Were Invented

Why Bakeries Were Invented

I’ve baked the cake, but cannot get the damn thing from the pan—
the problem being, mainly, that sticky layer of flan.
My daughter had demanded it, persnickety like her dad.
How had she ever heard of flan? I guess it was a fad.

I poured the custard in the pan and covered it with batter,
not sure whether the flan went first or if it was the latter.
Ten minutes in the oven and the glop began to rage
as though it was an animal, intent to leave its cage.

It roiled and fluxed, formed bubbles and spouted like fresh lava.
I lit a cigarette and poured another cup of java.
Although it was her birthday, I rued the day I’d asked
what kind of cake she wanted, for in this I’m sorely tasked.

But surprisingly, this devil cake did not escape its boundaries,
in spite of all my puzzlements and all my gross confounderies.
Now that I’ve finally got it out, I really am exhausted—
only to hear her next request. Now she wants it frosted!!!

Prompt words for today are exhausted, cage, flux, persnickety and cover.

The Drying of Sheets in the Wind

                                      photo by Jason Briscoe on Unsplash, used with permission

The Drying of Sheets in the Wind

When the world seems in a mess and you wax sanctimonious,
railing at the ills of those who make it less harmonious,
remember that life’s curses are only temporary.
When world events eat at your mind and the world feels scary,
remember bed sheets on the line, drying in the sun—
the sound of flapping in the wind as their drying was done.
The smell of bright clean sunlight on each wind-softened fold,

or the cracking of their ice crystals stiffening in the cold.

Remember their warmth around you, fresh from mother’s mangle?
Snapping them out in the air, her bracelets’s harmonious jangle?
Her even movements folding them, then spreading them once more
 for you to slip into your bed as she stood at the door,
storybook in hand for that nightly big procession
through story after story, read in that grand progression
of venturings into a world that seemed so vast and magic,
long before you knew the world to also be so tragic.

Let memories of your mother still be a comfort to you—
with memories of fresh white sheets. And let them both renew you.

 

Prompt words are sheets, temporary, curse , sanctimonious. Wow. What a list. How are these going to come together?

Full Makeup

Full Makeup

As each wispy object she attaches to her face,
these extraneous objects seem somewhat out of place.
They flutter  from her eyelids like moths before the flame—
just the opening number in her makeup game.

As she smooths on her concealer, then powders over all,
she does not see me watching her out here in the hall.
Never does she hesitate. Brushes grow ever finer
as she patiently applies shadow and eye liner.

She does it all so expertly with such consistent flair,
then carefully begins to work to rearrange her hair.
A little mousse to set the curls, a little spray of mist
and she’s prepared a face that is ready to be kissed.

When she comes home, the hair is mussed, one eyelash is askew.
One eyelid seems to be of a slightly lighter hue.
Although her hairdo’s fallen, still her mood seems somewhat lighter.
Her lipstick gone, and yet somehow her color seems much brighter.

One little word transforms a girl to another realm.
Makes an unsure teenager the captain at the helm.
Just change “make up” to “make out” and her heart takes wing.
And woe to any parent who notices a thing!

Prompt words today were flair, hesitate, spray and extraneous.

 

Mother’s Day Long After Mother

daily life color219

Mother’s Day Long After Mother

I feel the promise of rain in the gusting wind,
and in that far off wail of babies tired of the family gathering,
wanting their mothers to themselves.
Mother’s Day in Mexico is a three-day strung-out affair*
stretched out over the motherly memories of Gringos and Mexicanos.

Flowers fill the aisles of Costco and then melt
into the populace, streaming out in grocery carts by the threes
to mothers and grandmothers and great-grandmothers.

Pink cakes with chocolate scribbles fill huge center bins at Walmart,
appreciation of mothers being a going commercial concern
all over the chainstore world.

My mother I nestle in my memory like a beautiful uncut gem.
I trim off what ugly parts there might have been.
Rough stone falls away from the faceted center
until there she is, finished, refined in memory,
the way that she would want to be–

every hair in place, lipstick carefully aligned over a silly
Erma Bombeck grin, a small dog in her lap.

Or, better, wipe off the lipstick and muss the hair.
That same dog stretched out,
fencing in her stomach, waist and thigh
as she lies spread careless on the sofa,
asleep, a book having just fallen from her hand.

*By way of a short explanation, Mother’s day in Mexico  is always celebrated on  May 10,  whereas by those expats such as myself who grew up in the U.S., it is celebrated on the second Sunday in May, which this year fell on May 12. 

https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2019/05/12/rdp-sunday-finish/
https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2019/05/12/motherly/

Family Christmas: Reporting the Action

 

This is my brother-in-law Jim being silly for illustrative purposes only. jdbphoto

Family Christmas: Reporting the Action

We’re resplendent with family dripping like jewels—
gaudy ones, nosy ones, darlings and fools.
They flock ’round the Christmas tree, collect in groups.
Grandpa stands proudly while Uncle Al stoops.
The aunties are formidable with demands:
a nip for their toddy, while meanwhile their hands
examine the silver, the linen and lace,
draw dust trails with fingers and make a shocked face.

Why do we anticipate this all year long?
When families gather, it’s bound to go wrong.
And yet it goes on countless year after year.
We call each one “sweetheart” or “darling’ or “dear.”
We carve up the turkey, deliver the blessing,
serve up the cranberries, yams and the dressing.
We nod our heads “yes” and agree with the prattling,
try to avoid unavoidable battling.

They open our presents and do not dare spurn them,
yet we know in our minds that they’ll surely return them.
The children are running and fussing and fighting,
the parents regretting that they’re overnighting.
Your sister’s dog likes to beat up on yours.
He lies on his back, pinned down with all fours.
Meanwhile you give thanks for all you are worth
that tomorrow, again, there will be “Peace on Earth.”

 

The prompt words today are resplendent, formidable, anticipate and family.

https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2018/12/24/rdp-monday-resplendent/
https://fivedotoh.com/2018/12/24/fowc-with-fandango-formidable/
https://onedailyprompt.wordpress.com/2018/12/24/your-daily-word-prompt-anticipate-December-24-2018/
https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2018/12/24/family/

Family Night with Windup Toys, Dux and Cats

Click on first photo to view all in larger sizes.

My niece Cintra and great niece Stephanie, forgottenman (Dux), assorted cats and a box of windup toys made for a relaxed and hilarious evening in Eagan, Minnesota.  Tomorrow, back to Missouri.

Family Vacation

 

 

 

Version 6My dad in a slower mode of conveyance.

Family Vacation

My father on vacation was robotic in his thrust.
His modus operandi was to get there or to bust—
another hundred miles or so before we stopped to sup,
and we rarely got a room before the moon was up!

When he hit the highway, he became another man.

No mere roadside attraction could deflect his driving plan.
In those days of two-lane traffic and a speed limit of fifty,
he thought five hundred miles a day sounded rather nifty.

Fathers prone to threaten, who hit and rage and cuss

are, I fear, too often too ubiquitous.
But this was not my father. Rage was not his style.
He simply had addictions to mile after mile!

My dad was generous and fun. He told a story well,
but to take a trip with him was nothing short of Hell.
 His proclivity to “get there,” I fear was never curable,
and so family vacations were just barely endurable!

 

Version 2
My sisters and I with my dad.  He didn’t usually look this grim!

The prompt words today are highway, durable, robot and ubiquitous. Here are the links:

https://fivedotoh.com/2018/09/01/fowc-with-fandango-highway/

https://dailyaddictions542855004.wordpress.com/2018/08/26/daily-addictions-2018-week-34/durable

https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2018/09/01/rdp-saturday-robot/

https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2018/09/01/ubiquitous/