FRIDAY WRITINGS
When I think of food, I think of my grandmother’s chicken and dumplings. On our visits, I enjoyed the entire process. First a fat hen into the pot, simmering away and smelling wonderful. Then putting flour on the great round table, and adding the richest of the juices from the pot until a dough formed. I see her now, rolling pin in hand, rolling out the rich dough, then cutting it into squares which became pillows of delight along with the deboned chicken bits that had been returned to the pot. Then, seated around the great round table, grandpa would say the grace that I recorded in the following poem. Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United, November 5, 2021
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I remember grandma’s kitchen
from those days of long ago
for never king no president
saw such a wondrous show
The smell of grandma’s dumplings
I remember to this day,
and just as surely I recall
Grandpa saying “Let us pray”.
Then, gathered around the table
each seated in our place
large and small we’d bow our heads
as Grandpa said the grace.
“The corn”, he’d say, “is might dry.
Lord we pray you see fit for rain,
and Neighbor Brown is poorly, Lord
We pray you ease his pain”.
And the trails of steam grew shorter
over Grandma’s wondrous bounty
as Grandpa brought before the Lord
each sinner in the county.
He’s finished, surely, I would think.
there is no more to ask…
only to hear to my dismay
Grandpa warming to his task.
“We pray, oh Lord, for wisdom
for the leaders of our land
that they may steer this country
with a sure and steady hand.”.
His burdens laid upon the Lord
Grandpa would finally reach amen.
When heads were raised, forks were poised
all ready to dig in.
Now I know Grandpa’s in heaven
for it is his rightful place
but when God’s hungry, I’ll bet he says
“You set the table, Fred, I’ll say the grace.”
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I see them now, the beloved faces at that table. All passed now into the Great What Comes After, but living still in the memory of those of us privileged to have had a seat at Grandma’s table.
