Butter

This poem is still a bit of a work in progress and will be a part of a presentation I’m doing at a local artist event in a few weeks. As you might have noticed, I’m a baker. But I’ve only been baking the last couple of years. I used to be envious of though who baked, but I would also refuse to bake if given the chance. I never really knew why. I just said I wasn’t good at it. Now that I’m more practiced, I love having the opportunity to bake. But nine times out of ten, I have a panic attack when something goes poorly in the kitchen. About a month ago, this memory popped very vividly into my mind when I was struggling with a bake in my #faithbakes65 challenge. It’s a memory I’ve never forgotten, but I hadn’t realised the connection to my panic attacks until that moment. Since that day, it’s been plaguing me, so I though I would write a poem about it.

Butter

I used to grimace, say no, and walk away when presented with a baking tray.

It all  started in second grade with a lack of ingredients, my father going to the store and saying I could grease the pan whilst he was away.

“Grease with butter, just like the recipe says.”
1 ½ cups butter
So with the softened butter oozing between my fingers on my little right hand, I rubbed it all over the tins. All nice and thick, drawing patterns with my fingertips and then wiping them away to make the layers of light yellow cream as even as I may.

After washing my hands with a puddle of blue dish soap, I returned to my seat by the sheets and flour atop the deep chest freezer in the corner of our dining room bay.

I swung my legs as I admired my work, gently pushing and pulling the corner of the left tray.

I heard the squeaking of the brown aluminium screen door, the scrape of keys in the deadbolt of our yellow and white door, and my heart flutter as my muscles tensed before I remembered I should be proud of what next to me laid.

He came in with the baking powder and vanilla in a white and green plastic bag from Edward’s.
I smiled. “I buttered the trays!”

“Good!” he said in his baritone voice, walking over. I watch his face fall, and his voice goes even deeper. “Faith!”

My wide eyes went from still to trembling.
He shouted about butter and money and paint-stirring sticks. He slowly quieted to a stern voice.
“I’m disappointed in you.”

Published by A Boggus Life

I am an eclectic reader and editor who solves Rubik's cubes, writes, draws and paints, and longs to live in England and France.

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