Feature 22 - November 12, 2002
I'd dearly love to slip on through my mother's kitchen door.
I'd smell the turkey baking, stuffed with her own special blend,
Oh, the warmth of that old cookstove which she so dutifully would tend.
I'd see the turnip, onions, squash, bubbling gently in their pots,
A pretty glass container filled with fresh cranberry sauce.
I'd see Mama in her kitchen, making homemade yeast rolls.
The warmth in Mama's kitchen wasn't only from her stove.
I'd glance into the living room, furniture moved against the wall,
To make room for Mama's table, she welcomed one and all.
Pristine starched linens prepared before, gently clothed the table leaves.
Her good china from the cupboard; a harvest design of basket weave.
I'd see the pies hot from the oven; homemade mincemeat, apple and pumpkin,
I wish I could go back to be that little girl country bumpkin.
I'd see the family come together at Mom's Thanksgiving meal,
Her apron came off, she welcomed them home; this layout was no big deal.
Please pass the riced potatoes, Gini made them again this year;
Another reason I'd love to go back, my family was always near.
Mom and Dad are long gone now, I miss them both so much.
I pray that my own kitchen holds the warmth of my dear Mama's touch.