Christmas memories we never outgrow
Like fruitcake cookies in our South abode.
Lil Mimi and I recall that the dough
Made us jingle-jangle to the commode.
Momma baked batches with backyard pecans,
Green thingamajigs, sweet dollops of lard,
Yogurt, gold raisins, ten to twelve pans.
Love worked hard from a stained recipe card.
“Yum!” we lied. We dared not wreck Momma’s strive.
So, burnt bottoms kept coming with milk, grins.
Woman’s worth was a stove in ’65.
Mouths of dry crumbs kept our secret within.
This holiday, we will dine at a club reserved.
In freedom, no damn fruitcake cookie will be served.
INSTANT NOODLES 