Rome apples, coarse, blemished, unsprayed, fell straight from her tree. I was grateful for the gift. I roughly cut them into asymmetrical chunks, tossing the good into the bowl. A few frozen wild blueberries from last summer’s yield thrown in, a drizzle of local maple syrup, cinnamon and grated nutmeg are the filling for a pie. My thoughts backtrack to homemade, unadulterated goodness. Tasting the pure, I whined for the processed, packaged cookie-cutter desserts.
Even now, as much as I try new recipes, the kitchen always takes me home. Why years to realize I wasn’t raised in a mold?
So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm. I need not beg for allies. Those with the same palate will find me and no crust will ever out-flavor my moms. I can taste it and it’s not even baked yet.
Dversepoets.com Prosery. A line from William Blake’s poem ‘The Chimney Sweeper:’
So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm. Mine is exactly 144 words including the title.