[to Astrid Lindgren for Pippi Longstocking]
it's clouded roseberry; what did you put in this jam?
scrutinized my dream home-ec teacher.
used to her reprimands in real life
for once I didn't care. oh anything, I smiled.
oh air, clouds at dawn, slivers of pears
from a golden tree and crusted over snows,
unsifted, with cinnamon;
too much is never enough.
nothing at room temperature!
whatever my Grandmother told me to,
being mystical like her.
a dozen kiwi frapped spoonfuls
sipped carefully through straws first.
then, you fold it in.
glaciers at midnight.
red violet canals.
from a wooded twilight,
pale gooseberries.
elderberried rains from
dark purple clouds.
and irised smiles.
chicken livers: thrice choclatey scorched,
in the double boiler.
no cocoa today, I'm afraid,
I sang too gaily. not even with little
pink marshmallows...
but have some fudge soup to celebrate.
we'll make do and ladle it out
-I said, half-whimsically,
on flimsy paper plates;
(we economize on party supplies)
no longer graded on biscuits, I was free to tell the truth.
and turning the leaves of the textbook on the shelf
of dreams on God's best kitchen shelf I found
not one single recipe for White Sauce no.2.
flawlessly, lump-free...
(it's in the Other Place)
mary angela douglas 14 june 2014
Note on the Poem: this poem stems from my constant
embarrassment, bewilderment and near-paralysis in home economics class, jr. high school. I remember feeling intimidated looking at the recipes for white sauce nos. 1 and 2.
Helpful Hint Not from Heloise: the way you can tell it's a dream is that there's no such thing as roseberries. (by the way, Hints from Heloise was a syndicated newspaper column throughout the U.S. giving rather unusual household tips from a person named Heloise (I guess that was her real name).
