it's sunday morning, my coffee is ready and the biscuits are done

squinting eye at the
acridity of
blonde roast (laugh it up.
brunettes have proven
tasteless)
my grandmother's lecture
on staples replays. when
asked why it was always
black coffee, it boiled down
to gi geography. with even
the take-for-granted withheld
during wartime, grounds were
always plentiful even if
their decorations were sparse.
it became a near-universal
greeting among homefronters;
sit down, fret and pour it
whilst fresh.

i do not bond with humans over
java as much as i do with
ink; sleeves of stories matching
reams of recollections,
illustrated in respective eyes.
skyblue the dreamers, habitually
anchored by this one's
chlorophyll, treading upon
the graves of earthtones. now,
me and my ginger lap-panion
are outnumbered by a post-
hysterectomaniacal horde,
cotton-covered hustlers
competing to ball up on daddy's
comfiness. open door, herd
kittens.

it is an april deluge and
chapel post-floodwaters
gets no donation this morning.
instead it's a rewind to
competition for the dixie
holy grail: v's handwritten
masterlist of recipes. and
as her grandchildren jockeyed
sockeyed for possession, this
archivist sleighthanded 'em
all decades since her
death. and we open the
faded tome, hints whispering
from immemorial, and
my fingers inktrace over her
handiwork.

pity the poor yankee can't
recognize the only use for
flour, milk, eggs and lard
god ever meant.  one memento
i stole from cleaning up after
women was my grandmother's
rolling pin, and to use we
put it. once dough feels
money, circles are one
inch apart, foil buttered,
oven heated, and three
hunnert fifty starts
transformative work.

crack eggs, whip to
yolksmear, two frying
pans sizzing, ham slices
whisked away a second
before whiskerchomps. my
meowing audience aside,
this is a treat i enjoy
willfully solo, a sentinel
to texture, scents and
sensation, remembering
how i'd forgotten to
cook in what feels like
forever. biscuits ready
in three, frypig to plate,
scramble the preamble to
heat-a-cup and eat'em-up.

plate in front of me, i
breathe in the saturated
air, plump with pending
rains, advisories and a
scent both historical
and heavenly, substances
both substantive and
sustaining. each bite
anchors me in the moment,
a beat away from days when
nothing feels trustworthy,
time feels like an insult
and nobody gives an inch.

just a homemade sunday.