Saturday calls for pre-heating the toaster oven to max,
unearthing two bricks of gold from the freezer,
and waiting over a mug of dark roast
while laminated frozen dough lumps
melt into crisp-bottomed pastries.
Core memories wash over me
as my hands twist open
a red and white plaid-lidded jar of preserves.
Grandma's favorite brand, now mine, too.
Load a big scoop of glistening raspberries
and plop a syrupy spoonful
onto my parchment paper-lined plate.
A few pats of butter hold their scalloped edge
dredged in from the table knife.
I lift my spoon, smear jam to hot biscuit.
As I bring the buttery glory to my lips,
I hear the curdling cry of the washing machine,
my peace pierced through by that shrill tone
that can only mean
"UB" - Unbalanced Load.
That is, a near future of cold,
slimy wet arms up to my elbows,
fighting to free a knotted lump of bed linens
in the groaning washer.
I squeeze my ears shut:
"I CAN'T HEAR YOU!"
Chores beg for me,
but I stake my claim to this moment.
They will have to wait, just a bit.
I bite a corner off my baked good.
Molten butter drips down my chin
while I pretend that I am fully here.
If not convenient, if not peaceful,
"This is comfort," I tell myself.
