karen kwasny

Reunion

From the cold oven, I pull
two bloated thighs of bread dough
Air-filled and fat, ready for rolling. 

The fleshy, unbaked loaves 
land with a thud on the corian counter.
My grandmother recites:
Two sticks of melted oleo,
Two cups brown sugar,
Two tablespoons milk,
One teaspoon cinnamon.

One large box vanilla pudding mix
“The cooking kind” she notes.
“Just remember, never instant.”
Mix by hand. 
Pour into a 9 X 12 glass baking dish.

A thick caramel ribbon cascades over the edge of the bowl
And drops like a waterfall into the dish,
pushing its weight against itself
out to the edges.
My grandmother sinks my hands into the sticky
white skin of the bread dough and we pinch pieces off the edges, 
placing them side by side in the thick syrup lining the dish.

Rocks in a stream bed, I think. 
Pebbles, shells, eggs.
One by one until the loaves are gone,
the baking dish full.

I wipe my hands on my grandmother’s yellow apron,
pull the edges to wipe the wet from my face,
feel the warmth of the oven fill the kitchen. 
Press 25 minutes and stand back.

My grandmother pats my shoulder, says,
“Now all we can do is wait.”
We turn in unison, clean the bowls, wipe the counter,
hang the apron from the hook behind the laundry room door.

The recipe book sits unopened on the counter. 
I hug it to me before placing it back in the cupboard,
Survey the empty kitchen while I lick the spoon,
watch the sugary syrup shine and bubble,
the golden-brown pillows of dough rise and rise and rise.