potts Ellen 006

Still she stirs.

Its batter thickens slowly

with the sugar of our Christmas years.

Pinches of paper choristers

with proper mouths to sing “Noel,”

and plops of plastic instruments

with cracked, silvery stain accompanying them

(to tease the eyes and tongue

with tinsel specks and nutty bites)

mix melodiously in creamy base.

Spicy dust of tea floats down

as if blown on seeking, eastern winds,

vanishing in mystery

beneath shifting, spoon-stroked sands.

And then, the tree.  Oh, the tree!

Bitter sap of cedar forest

fills the house with prickling, icy clean,

potency released, but softened in the velvety milieu.

Embedded in each sappy bead

the ornaments, sparkling stations of a child,

rise to the top: tender memories to the surface.

A cup of crackling, smoky oak

helps hold the mixture’s warmth.

She tastes.  “It lacks some sweet.”

Ambrosia, custard, cakes of coconut and caramel

by tablespoonful, draw satisfaction’s smile.

Music’s melding oil pours in,

blending solo soprano with ivory keystrokes;

“O Holy Night” for the “Gesu Bambino.”

These impart a taste unique.

But without milk’s gratitude for gifts

and butter’s spread of selfless love,

the savory blessing would be missed.

Still she stirs.

Our baking pans are filled again

with sweet ebony delight.

I must keep my oven warm,

for Christmas mouths will always crave

such bites of richness for the soul.

for Christmas mouths will always crave

such bites of richness for the soul.


  1. Oh for me it was the rolls of vanilla fudge that melted on my tongue. In order to avoid the long time beating dough, As adult I tried using the bread-kneading attachment on Oster mixer. Broke it! Still looking for that recipe. :D. — Tru
    Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T

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