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# Who's Gonna Know
- URL: https://dianaludwick.com/whos-gonna-know/
- Published: 2026-06-21T15:22:00.000Z
- Updated: 2026-06-21T15:22:00.000Z
- Description: “Who's Gonna Know?” written Sunday, June 21, poem 172 in a series of 365 poems written by Diana Ludwick in 2026. Photo, "No One Will Know Theyre Gonna Know," an almost full tray of Rice Crispy Treats by Diana Ludwick (c) 2026.
- Author: Diana Ludwick
- Tags: 2026 Poetry Challenge, Generational, Humor, Loosely Hinged, Poems, Unserious, Almost Full Pans, Deception, Generational Wisdom, June, Like Grandma Like Granddaughter, Rice Crispy Treats, Summer, They're Gonna Know, Who's Gonna Know?, #Migrated-1792872215677, #wp, #wp-post, #Import 2026-10-24 20:03

In 1980 my mom made a tray   
of homemade rice crispy treats  
browning butter,   
melting marshmallows  
swirling malted rice puffs   
into the sugary fatty slick.  
  
And she set it aside  
for her husband's admiration.  
  
But then it called to her.  
So she took a table knife.  
And she cut the   
sliveriest razor thin,   
deli meat-thick strip  
off the edge of the tray.  
  
Imperceptible.   
No one will know.  
Surely,   
not her tired husband.  
  
And then ten minutes later,   
she shaved another slice   
off the edge,  
this time sashimi thick.  
  
And this process   
of winnowing  
continued  
over the span of   
hours  
until  
all that was left  
was a single  
two inch square.  
  
Which she transferred   
smartly, she thought,  
to a bread plate,  
and presented proudly   
upon his return that night.  
  
He looked at the small offering  
and said, "Thanks! Where are the rest?"  
  
And that's the day  
my mom learned  
if you're going to eat   
almost the whole tray  
of rice crispy treats  
you better consume it entirely  
lest there be pesky questions  
that have no pat answers.  
  
And so on this day, in 2026  
when my daughter made me   
"a whole tray"  
of rice crispy treats  
yet had left a knife lain on the edge  
I had to peer in and inspect.  
Lo and behold,   
the left flank had attrition  
which to the untrained eye   
might have passed muster.  
  
But I,   
the daughter of the chagrined,   
and the mother   
of a boundary pusher,  
knew well enough to discern   
an early taste check.  
  
"No one's gunna know"   
she retorted,   
in the face of   
my silent scrutiny.  
  
"They're gonna know,"   
I declare.  
"Hand me that knife."