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Behind Closed Eyes Granny’s kitchen was a magnet built around an old wood burner that was decked with chrome legs, that tried hard to talk rich. Even though everybody knew they were bowed just like the big apes in National Geographic. That stove was like a furnace, but coal-black with just a shred of white porcelain up there by the warming oven - to boast a little. In all, every day that we filed in through the kitchen and passed the old stove, serves as my looking glass tripping back to the days of apple pie and kindling, in an over the shoulder step over. The double windows saw out to the back yard and smiled in one pile of daylight. While by mid-morning,the sun poked enough rays to glisten the cookie jar that hugged the top of the old oak cupboard. It was as if diamonds had replaced the raisins. Yet,they were those hard-to-get diamonds for cookies were doled on a one only basis – at least until baking day. Then, we’d gaze at our Granny, chin to elbow, while she kneaded Miniature Mountains of Dough with her one-of-a-kind motions. The feeling fastens me to whiff those deep-dish pies, sheltered away safe, secure in the oven so I could lick the spoon - in peace. O, how I cherish each breeze that wafts memory to that kitchen and the setting sufficient to elevate love to levels of legend. There are days when I duly lose my way, simply surrender to the tribute of sheltered times. In particular, are the moments behind closed eyes, when image skips down a muse of yellow brick roads, in tender shades of childhood dreams, and cookies. |
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