Hold That Bowl
Like this, Grandma said, hold that bowl upside
down over your head. Grandma illustrated
how it should be done. Now Grandma, who
really wasn’t our Grandma, we just called her
that because she was old and deeply wrinkled
like a well-worn linen shirt suffering an Atlanta
summer day, well, she made heaven-scent pies
with mallowed, bold-as-a-bosom, whipped
to the height of collapse, meringue topped pies.
Even on the most humidly drippingly muggy
day, Grandma could beat a dozen egg whites
into stiff-peaked glossy submission. Moisture
and humidity, she’d say, is the true test of
a woman … and then she’d wink and add,
Cooking, I mean, of course, darlin’. She’d
crack an egg, one at a time, the white slipping
for joy between her slightly spread fingers,
and the yolk plump as the newly risen sun sat
in her palm like an obedient dog. She’d
flick her wrist and the yolk summersaulted
into a bowl where it sat patiently awaiting
its fate. The whites, clear and trembling
in a deep copper bowl stared up at her.
Waiting. Waiting. A wire whisk in her hand,
Waiting, and she began. Large circular snaps
of her wrist, the bowl tucked under her arm,
circles and snaps and figures of eight, circles
and snaps thickening and figures of thickening
eights. Faster and thicker and quicker and
thicker and foaming to peaks. She stopped.
Tipped the bowl, and continued to beat until
the peaks begged in tiny little squeaks to stop.
Like this, Grandma said, holding that bowl
upside down over her head, and not one drop
spilled out on her pinkish-blue-tinted hair.
Poetic Asides Prompt Day 4: Hold That (fill in the blank)
(c) Misky 2013 This work is protected by copyright