Previously published in Spellbinder
Sunday morning, and my father is tending
to a pool of gold with an arm like a whisk.
The batter is perfected: a potion of flour, eggs,
milk, and Northern purposefulness.
Poured into puddles on a sizzling baking tray,
he knows the exact moment they must be brought
to the oven so they can crisp with the roast potatoes.
There is no recipe. The knowledge is always in the eating.
I stand on the tips of my toes, trying to see
the catalyst of this culinary magic, this heat sorcery.
Slowly, the batter becomes bowls. They bloom
into boulders, rising like the Pennines.
The oil spits and crackles around each cauldron.
They unfold themselves, as if my father’s hands
were moulding their amber clay. Such sculptures,
light as clouds, touched by winter sun.
No, he says, never open the oven to check. Don’t
let them deflate. They are served with appropriate
ceremony, a plate of trumpets, flashing brighter
than coins, than secrets: my inheritance.
