At the kitchen table, she kneads
the malleable dough, pie crust for tea
her family’s hunger to feed.
The balls of her hands press hard
rhythmic rolling, pastry’s Bard
humble beginnings, flour and lard
The table surface dusted with flour,
her mind ever watchful of the hour.
Dough rolled thin and cut to fit,
trimmings form leaves, no wasted bits.
Warm aroma of onions sauté,
ingredients carefully sourced and weighed.
Metronome slice of vegetables cut,
Extract with squelch and slurp the poultry gut.
My mother cooked and baked the week round
each day it shaped, three meals found.
Instinctively adept to such wholesome tasks
no doubt, like her mother too; no glory in which to bask.