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The old Frigidaire hummed and droned
to the snap of green beans, and
lids twisted on Mason jars.
Scents awakened the house, pulled me
down winding stairs
to a back porch where ice crystals formed
inside the window’s December pane.
My breath hung heavy
warmed by the smell of coffee percolating,
corn meal mush and
frying bacon in an ancient iron pan.
In one corner, baskets of apples from the orchard
and corn ready to be shucked.
Kettles, large and small,
stood like soldiers at attention on the stove.
Bouquets of peonies and poppies
spread across Sallie’s apron,
mingled with spots of tomato
and golden dandelion stains
from the wine she made,
that uncles snuck outside
when her back was turned.
I learned to cook, arms curled around my knees
beneath an enamel table top,
watched flour fall to the floor,
while Sallie danced a ballet
from stove to sink and then back again,
pinching snips of herbs
from clay pots along the window sill,
lifting lids from steaming pans, as
aromas sang a love song
capturing my spirit taking root
like a wisteria vine
in a tiny back porch kitchen.
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