The Secret Recipe

Here is a fun poem I wrote about my husband, (when he was a kid) and his grandmother.

I was three-foot-five and she was five-foot-three.

I was five years old and she was eighty three,

That special day I helped her make her secret recipe.

I stood upon a chair so I could reach the bowl,

While Grandma lined the counter with the ingredients, row by row.

She put in a pinch of this and a tad bit of that

And when I asked her what it was, she said. “To make us fat.”

I gave her a puzzled look and she gave me a wink,

But when I tried to copy her, all I did was blink.

Grandma laughed with jellied glee and slapped her bony knees.

Then she tweaked my nose and said, “A little butter, if you please.”

I gave her a tiny smirk and handed her a stick,

But she pushed out her lower lip and said, “Give me two more sticks.”

I chopped that butter up with a big ole’ wooden spoon,

While she dumped in half a moon of thick molasses.

I beamed up at Grandma and dreamed of that taste,

And how the neighboring lasses would be begging me for a piece.

“Best clean that gleam from your eyes,” Grandma uttered.

Then she added in a pint of sugar and I stirred it in until it looked like cream.

I poured in the vanilla, while she cracked a dozen farm-fresh eggs,

But she held up her hand and said, “Hold up a peg.”

Then she added in the flour, a cup or two or three,

Plus some that splattered onto my navy-blue jeans.

Grandma dropped in a spoon pf baking powder,

Some raisins drowned in rum,

And added enough corn syrup to fill a small wooden drum.

I stirred it all together, but that batter was mighty thick

And I pondered for a minute if this was some kind of trick,

But Grandma greased an iron pan and scooped that batter in.

Which made me wonder how she ever lifted that heavy pan?

She turned the oven on to three-twenty-five and placed that pan way deep inside,

While I stared at the door as the minutes ticked by.

That heavenly scent of cinnamon and ginger went ’round the room with its spicy flavor,

Which made the cowpokes beg for Grandma’s favor.

But they’ll have to step in the back of the line,

For I get that first piece, oh yes, it’s mine.

We’ll all have to wait for an hour or two,

Until that sweet cake is completely through.

“Hold onto your hats, boys. For that cake’s got to cool.”

Grandma’s brows creased as I snatched a small piece by the skin of my teeth

And I ran from the room and her hand with the spoon.

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