The Doxology is barely off of my tongue
Shoulders still ablaze from the sizzling streams of daylight pouring through the car windows
Darting from the backseat of the old, yellow Dodge
and scampering to the first clanking, then squeaking gate
racing up the sidewalk and the cracked concrete stairs
Porch. Living room. Dining room.
How innocently this banquet lies in waiting
though it has been teasing my mind and palate since the onset of the sermon
Table spilling over with home-cooked devotion
Platters placed purposefully by the experienced hands of the Patriarch and Matriarch
Round chargers layered with ripened, ruby red tomatoes
salted and peppered to perfection
Purple onions, similarly arranged and vying for recognition
Steaming bowls of the garden’s bounty
Sunny squash mingled with bacon and onions that were minced on the striped, wooden cutting board
Pepper-sprinkled, creamy alabaster potatoes
dripping with a russet-hued elixir that was birthed in the worn iron skillet
Golden cornbread with a touch of sugar spooned in
Creamed butter whipped till it curls like a wisp of smoke
Plastic lids removed from blue tubs, revealing faux butter for those who insist upon it
Roasted beef disguised by a mountain of scallions and candied carrots
Fried chicken forming a mountain on a cookie sheet (We are proud Southerners, after all)
Pink roses on a glass canvas
a glass canvas that is filled with iced tea
its sweetness strengthening
as the saccharin tablets are secretly plopped in by tricky tribesmen
unaware of each other’s imbibing intentions
Clunky rectangular hunks of ice stacked upon one another in diverse drinking glasses
Bubbly, flaky peach cobbler
no box in sight (Mrs. Smith is never invited)
No “how-to” booklets or stained pieces of paper needed
They know it all by heart
Chairs of wood and metal congregated in a tight round
Houston phone books stacked high for the diminutive members of the clan
Mismatched plates, glasses, and flatware
but never the mugs
always pale green, Fire King mugs
filled with sugary, beige coffee
brewed in a clear glass percolator
Tell Mel Tormé to scat away
the hi-fi only broadcasts our laughter
The Doxology carries on, everlasting
I lift my pale green, Fire King mug of sugary, beige coffee
and breathe the scent in, deeply
Reminiscing. Musing. Evoking those flashes of memory
and satisfaction
and home-cooked devotion
and hunger for that same old repast |