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# Buttermilk
- URL: https://dianaludwick.com/buttermilk/
- Published: 2026-01-11T20:26:58.000Z
- Updated: 2026-10-24T20:12:50.000Z
- Description: "Buttermilk," a prayerful scientific experiment. Poem 011 in a series of 365 poems written by Diana Ludwick in 2026.
- Author: Diana Ludwick
- Tags: 2026 Poetry Challenge, Poems, #Migrated-1792872215677, #wp, #wp-post, #Import 2026-10-24 20:03

Glug, glug slosh  
Viscous buttermilk slides out   
From its jug  
To drape into the confines of a temporary vessel,  
Rendering transparent Pyrex opaque.   
  
Into the measuring cup goes   
Two eggs, swirled into homogeneity with a slim whisk,  
A covetous dose of vanilla bean paste and  
What remains of the melted butter --  
That which did not explode and coat the   
Interior of the sighing microwave.   
  
Whirling this concoction to a   
Golden creamy slurry  
Now pour, drip, splat  
Into a concave field of flour  
Leavening agents, and  
Rosy mineral  
Carved from the Himalayas.  
  
Disparate substances   
Converge to be of purpose.  
  
Commence, the catalyst:  
Baking soda hisses at contact with bright liquid  
Eggs moisturize ground grains  
Butter percolates throughout.  
  
A toasty landing strip  
In the form of countertop griddle  
Receives heady clouds of batter which   
Hydroplane atop   
Sizzling streaks of grapeseed oil.  
  
Science retires and faith enters:  
Will the pasty globs rise into meltaway miracles?  
Where are the bubbles - divine proof of progress?   
  
Slowly, seams of golden butter  
Seap from the surface.  
  
A watched pot resists boiling;  
A monitored pancake evades firming.  
  
With no hurry, a first bubble  
An ambivalent explorer, crests and bursts forth.  
Then, millenia later, a second orb pops.  
  
A troop of beige rounds now crisp at the edges;  
Once slick tops grow matte and spongy.  
  
Belief restored; the chef breathes.  
  
Supple silicone slides deep  
Under the hidden bottoms of each mound.  
  
Further trust is summoned:  
Will this flip or flounder?  
  
Hypothesis tested:   
First contender executes a wobbly one-eighty.  
Success!   
Now, another, then a third.  
  
The black landscape fills with gold and sepia discs  
With craggly circumferi and pock-marked crusts,  
Yet tender, yielding to a spatula overhead.  
  
Caught unaware by the arrival much prayed for,  
Still surprising after decades of incantations and practice,  
The cook cries out:  
Breakfast! Run!   
  
And there, upon plates found just in time,   
Cakes escape scorching by milliseconds  
Landing plumply and pliable  
On outstretched porcelain.  
  
A pat - okay three  
Skate across pillowy piles.  
Burnished treacle pirouettes   
From its poised spoon.  
  
And now - an offer of grace  
A small blessing, this feast  
In the calm space of a   
Quiet Sunday.  
  
My center will not hold;  
Soon I too will be a bubble, traveling up  
Emerging into a noisy world.  
  
Until then, the holy trinity  
Pancakes Syrup Butter  
Cloak me in safety and peace.  
Amen and blessed be.