The kitchen sings with busy things
Sounds of trays and plates –
The assets behind
The food she prepares and makes.

I see her standing there now,
Sifting, shaking and sieving her way;
Apron bow big
And the flour dust powder
On her palms and arms,
Kneading the mixture of
Love and water.

The bowl is deep
And sugar sweetens the butter
As my fingers grow hungry
For the fat, flour paste
They long to scoop.

At last metal is at it’s heat
And a large mass of floury squash
Is shaped by tip and knife.
In it goes to be transformed
In texture, smell and taste.

My eyes close
And my fingers scoop
The wet fat onto my sweet tooth.

Nothing is ever wasted
Only transformed in light and heat.