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hand. All tied up, three-three.
Grab a beer and come sit down.
“Sure. Give me a few.” I follow
the drift of sage and rosemary
toward the kitchen, where
the women have gathered like
ravens to watch Mom crust
the prime rib with fresh ground
pepper and rock salt. Marie Haskins
doesn’t need cooking shows.
Experience trumps experiments.
It’s a scene right out of a movie.
Five women, all beautiful
within their own stages of life,
talking and laughing and drinking
wine. Golden-shelled pies decorate
the granite countertops, leak
scented steam, hinting at their
anonymous fillings. Bread
dough rises in yeasty grandeur,
and a chorus line of foil-wrapped
potatoes await their own turn in
the oven. It’s a scene right out
of a movie, okay. Artificial.
Look into any of these ladies’
eyes, I guarantee you’ll find
some manner of hurt. Something
to deny feasting and celebration.
Something to deny Thanksgiving.
CALL ME A CYNIC
