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.