Mom’s Fried Corn

Suzanne S. Austin-Hill

I celebrated your birth

   in such a different way;

At first I didn’t notice

   it was your special day.

Eight plump ears of corn lie waiting,

   checkerboard of yellows and whites;

A break in the clear wrap reveals

   familiar scents as well as sights.

Around your granddaughter’s kitchen

   I searched for one small knife;

Serrated – kernels to be freed,

   thrust forward with no strife.

Meanwhile, the smell of bacon

   permeates the air;

Snapping, popping grease landing

  everywhere.

And when the strips are fried

   glist’ning, hard and crisp;

I check the pan to see

   if there’s one I’d missed.

I find that they’re all done,

  one-by-one I take them out;

On paper tow’ls they lie

   as I verify the count.

The hot drippings in the pan

   bid the kernels a quick adieu;

Milk-covered they sizzle, squirm,

   and nestle in their moo juice stew.

The flame I keep adjusting

   until it cooks down nice ‘n good;

I crumble up the bacon,

  true magnum opus this food.

Now, the oohs and ahhs of your great grands,

   ones you never knew,

brought that this was no coincidence

   clearly into view.

I celebrated your birth

   in such a different way;

I made fried corn just like you,

   on that, your special day.

Suzanne S. Austin-Hill is a native New Yorker and Florida resident. She is the mother of two and grandmother of six. Months of isolation have released a fury of emotions expressed best and most passionately through poetry. Suzanne maintains regular writing and submission schedules (with some successes) and is capitalizing on the availability of online poetry classes and workshops.

Issue 2

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