Sunday Supper

“A woodsy smell”
“No, it is caramel!”
“it smells like coffee”
“ Molasses is my bet.”

Begun the day before
a foreign fragrance wove
a perfume blanket
animated conversation
danced with words among
a kaleidoscope of smells.

Gramma’s eyes twinkled.
Bright red mitts stroked the singing pot.
Gertie’s lid must be tight!
It held the secret Sunday dinner.

A tradition begun long before
No spoon could touch our lips
an answer must given.
All knew an herb would be the clue.
Herbs taught before the alphabet.
Would expose Gertie’s contents.

Sunday soup was our fare.
No chicken dinner ever.
Gramma’s chickens Molly, Lola, Dorothy,
all sixteen her privileged hens.
gave her eggs and joy.
She gave them life and gave us vegetables.

“Do you give up?”
“NO!” sang aunts, uncles, cousins.
Lovage?
Thyme?
Chervil?
Maybe Basil?

Ah, Gramma smiled.
One herb was right.
We need a clue
And so it was.
“It’s green not to be seen.”
Alice Louise knew of only one
with counterfeit smells and
laughed,
“Lovage and potato soup!”

Sunday dinners on the farm
All the same except a different soup
Crowned with fresh bread.
Crusty as Gramma and soft as her heart.

Never saying grace before a meal,
Gramma reasoned,

“it’s already blessed just being made
But we must give thanks.”

We each held our piece.
Gramma read
it was the same like soup

“5000 he fed that day…”

She looked at each of us

“The miracle is in the sharing.
Take your bread save some for another.
Always.”

As babies we had Eucharist before we knew it.

Pat Pickett, OblSB

Picture: Vecteezy