My Mother’s Bread

Plump, a lump, out of the large
bucket, must have been heavy,
with the mixer attached to the cover
another lump, plump
into the bread pan — six or 8 of them
lined up on the table
while we watched, anticipating
the last lump
when my mother dropped a piece of butter
in the pan on the stove, then scooped
and shaped little portions of dough in her hands
dropped them one by one into the
frying pan, now sizzling —
that little piece of fried dough, with
butter melting on the sides
was worth all the waiting
when we let the aroma drift up
into our anxious little noses
before we dared take a bite.

My mother slipped a towel over
her pans of bread, for them to rest and rise.
We were not interested anymore
The baking the next day brought
us back into the kitchen — the aroma
was a whole other story.