In the kitchen
live the ghosts
that waft with air
of pies and roasts.
Abiding still
in towel and platter,
in recipe card
with ancient splatter,
they hover close
and scrutinize
with furrowed brow
and x-ray eyes
my every move,
my chops and pares,
as I use things
that once were theirs.
And then they squeeze around
to eat,
they watch our manners
heads to feet,
then, with a wink
to everyone,
salute themselves
for job well done.
Here is the crowd in my kitchen this week: my mother’s recipe for stuffing in her handwriting, the towel my Grandma Mauck would wet and wrap over the turkey to keep it cozy, their baster and meat thermometer, the platter my Grandma O’Hern’s turkeys came to the table on. Three women at my elbows.
You will note the towel is linen. My mother and her mother insisted on linen dishtowels, and, yes, my dear incredulous reader, they had to be ironed. Ironed damp, no less. In my generation, the technical term for such things was “flatwork,” and it was how we served our ironing apprenticeships. Handkerchiefs, pillowcases and sheets, linen towels…flatwork. Yes, we ironed sheets and pillowcases. And underwear. As I hear it, young women today wouldn’t know which side of the iron gets hot. (They’re smarter than we were.)
But I digress.
It’s a difficult time no matter where you live, dear reader; I wish I could make things better for you, for all of us. You might not celebrate Thanksgiving Day this week, but you can know that I am giving thanks for you because you have helped me write, and that has been a huge gift to me. Thank you!