My Grandma’s Kitchen
“Let’s make a pudding, let’s make a pie,
Let’s make a cake that reaches the sky;”
I would tell my Grandma each day and each night.
With a smile on her face, an epitome of grace,
My Grandma would bake the base of the cake.
Hidden in the corner was an oven so old,
But that little thing was her treasured gold!
All around the walls were shelves to hold,
Little bottles of secret ingredients with flavors so bold.
With a wave of her hand and a twinkle in her eyes,
My Grandma would cook up meals that would make you smile.
The aroma of spices that lingered in the air,
Spoke of the food that she cooked with a flair.
All through my childhood, I would sit on a stool
In the middle of the kitchen to hand her the tools.
Tools which she used to stir and roast –
Food that would make even MasterChef’s toast.
As time passed, the menus got smaller,
But the little that came out, was fit for a scholar.
Her hands got wobbly, her feet got cold,
Her five-foot two frame shrunk and got old.
Till one night she was no more.
But her kitchen is here to stay,
with stories that I could rant about each day.
The aromas no longer lace the air,
But the kitchen will always be her magical lair.
By: Richelle Coutinho
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