Babuska's sarmale

 
In a snowy Romanian village, during Christmas cheer,
my Babuska spun tales, both delightful and queer.
The tradition was sarmale, a savory delight,

Cabbage wrapped treasures, cooked all through the night.
Meat and rice nestled in leaves so green,
simmered in tomato, a feast so serene.

But woven in laughter and holiday charms
were Babuska’s stories with their quirky alarms:

"Behave well, dear children, lest you wish to be seen
in the pot with the sarmale, simmering and lean."
The children would giggle, eyes wide with surprise,
imagining their mischief leading to such a guise.

Babuska spoke of laughter, of stories old and grand,
of neighbors coming together, a united band.
In the coziness of kitchens, where joy would expand,
the taste of sarmale, a celebration so planned.

Yet beneath her stern warnings, there was love in disguise,
a way to teach kindness, through her playful eyes.

As sarmale bubbled, and the air filled with spice,
the village embraced Christmas with warmth so nice.
And though her words carried a humorous bite,
they guided young hearts through the wintery night.

In Babuska's village, traditions held tight,
with sarmale and stories, Christmas shone bright.
The village would sparkle, under the moon's light.

Children's eyes gleaming, with sheer delight.
Babuska's voice would soften, as she reminisced
of Christmases past, the loved ones missed.

But the sarmale remained, each bite a sweet twist.
A legacy of flavors in every savory kiss.