My Memaw’s kitchen spells,

Some scribbled on note cards in an old tackle box,

Some only she knew and were planted with her in the grave,

Some passed down,

Before she passed away,

But all of them tried and true,

She was an alchemist like no other,

Pelahatchie Root Woman,

Could take this,

And take that,

To make this,

And make that,

Into something so delicious,

That it make you wanna slap yo mama…

But don’t,

Black mamas slap back!

All I wanted on my wedding day was my Memaw’s pound cake,

“They call it ‘pound cake’ cause they use a pound of butter”,

I can hear her voice,

Emotional recall, I reckon,

“You need 6 eggs, room temperature, beat your eggs in one at a time”

Pure vanilla extract,

Sugar,

Salt,

A little almond,

I remember how warm the oven made her tiny kitchen feel,

Yet she could make meals that would feed the multitudes, 

She be something like the first, second, and third coming,

Cooking up a storm for everyone,

And baking me a pound cake,

The only dessert I ate,

Memaw was at my wedding in other ways,

When the wind blew past my face,

Or when the birds sung their songs,

And seeing my mother’s eyes,

In which she gave to her,

And in turn she gave to me,

Big brown eyes,

And big yellow thighs,

Looking just like a slice,

Of my Memaw’s pound cake.