LEFTOVER CAKE

LEFTOVER CAKE

When I was a little girl,
perhaps once or twice a year
my parents would have a party,
sometimes it was a New Years Eve celebration
to which children were not invited;
I’m not sure what we did
to occupy ourselves in our rooms on the second floor,
but what I remember is
the next morning
there were many tumblers
with an inch or two of liquid
at the bottom—but which did not taste very good.
I suspect my brothers may have
poured all the dregs together
to see what they had missed,
but what I remember best
is the remains of a cake
Left laying out on the table
now crusty and dried out–
but cake…was cake….no matter what its condition
so while my parents slept
We polished off the cake.

–Sandra Lee Smith

WHEN MAMA BAKES A CAKE

Sometimes when breakfast dishes have
Been washed and put away,
My mama looks at me and says
“Let’s bake a cake today!”
From a peg she takes her apron
While from a low peg, I take mine,
We tie the strings behind our backs,
And don’t we look just fine?
Mama’s biggest yellow bowl
Stands upon the kitchen table,
And I step up on a little stool,
To help, because I’m able.
Mama cracks some eggs fresh from the barn,
I take a fork and stir them up,
You have to beat those eggs a lot,
Before you can add a cup
Of sugar, butter, flour too,
And soda for the rising,
And Mama grates some nutmeg in,
For a taste that’s right surprising;
It’s my job to butter up the pans
And dust them both with flour,
And then the cakes go into bake,
And that takes ‘near an hour.
While they bake, we tidied up,
And tiptoe cross the floor,
Cause you don’t want those cakes to fall,
And have to make some more.
The kitchen fills with spicy scent,
And I can hardly stand the wait,
It’s always something special, when
My Mama bakes a cake.

–Sandra Lee Smith

NO TIES ON EARTH TO BIND HIM (FOR ROBERT)

NO TIES ON EARTH TO BIND HIM
(For Robert)

No ties on earth to bind him,
This spirit freely soars,
Spanning mighty mountains,
Skimming distant shores.
Amongst the stars in heaven,
Beyond the reach of man,
This spirit wakes in wonder,
And cries aloud, “I can!”

And seeing those who loved him,
Still bound by earthly ties,
He hears their sounds of mourning,
And feels their sorrowed cries.
Yet from that timeless, distant space,
Beyond the reach of man,
His spirit wakes in wonder,
And calls to home, “I am!”

–Sandra Lee Smith,
September 22, 2011

ONE DAY WHEN MAMA AND PAPA WENT TO TOWN

One summer morning I woke up
And much to my surprise,
I didn’t smell the coffee brewing;
I went down—and could not believe my eyes;

There mama sat, in her Sunday best
With gloves, her purse and hat –
Then pa came in –and he’s dressed up too,
What could I make of that!

He said “The team is hitched to go”
Mama said “I’m ready too,
I just need to give young sis a list
Of things for her to do”

My eyes were wide; I took the list
That mama wrote for me;
I was to go and gather eggs,
And give the hens some feed;

I was to take some jars from the pantry shelf,
Some applesauce and beets,
And there was bread and butter that
My brother and I could eat.

”He’s got his own chores,” Papa said,
And “You have got your own,
Don’t want to hear about no fussing,
Feuding over some old bone”

“Yessir,” I said, my eyes still on
The list that seemed so long,
Ma said “I want you to make up supper
And we’ll eat when we get home”

“Yes mam,” I answered, feeling fearful,
They’d never gone away before;
Mama gave me a kiss and off they went
Out through the kitchen door.

I fixed tea for Bud and milk for me,
And got out bread and jelly,
I ate a lot of fresh baked bread
To satisfy my belly.

Then Bud went out to tend the pigs
And led the cows to pasture,
Then he went out to sow the seed
That Pa said he should master.

With mama’s basket, I gathered eggs,
And fed the hens some mash,
Mama sells the eggs in town,
That’s how she gets some cash.

I cleaned the eggs like mama did,
And laid them down in straw,
I swept the kitchen and the yard,
It wasn’t hard at all.

I brought up applesauce and beets,
And then thought I’d bake a cake;
I followed mama’s recipe
And put it in to bake,

From the smokehouse I cut a slice
Of ham and chopped it up,
Then in a pot I put runner beans
And carrots, ‘bout a cup,

Midday my brother came to eat
More mama’s bread, and butter,
Then I tidied up the kitchen,
So there wasn’t any clutter.

‘Bout supper time it all was done,
And I had the table set,
When we heard the wagon wheels,
Bud said “That’s them, I bet”.

Oh, pa and mama praised us both
And said we’d done them proud,
They ate the supper that I made,
And Pat said that he allowed

He’d left some room to try the cake,
I fixed the plates with pride.
I saw my mama’s eyes fill up;
The first time I’d seen her cry.

Then Papa said “We have some news”
We wondered what it was,
They went to see the bank, today,
And the reason was, because,

He said they’d paid the mortgage off,
The farm was free and clear.
Bud and I stood up and clapped
And gave a rousing cheer.

I really didn’t understand
How much it meant, that day,
Years would pass before I knew,
By now I’m old and gray;

Bud and I stayed on the farm
Long after our folks had died,
And now the land belongs to us;
I feel gratitude, inside;

It could have all been left to Bud,
A lot of people think that way,
But papa left it to me, too,
There was naught anyone could say.

And so I cooked and kept the house
And tended to Ma’s hens;
I sold the eggs to folks in town.
The circle never ends.

–Sandra Lee Smith

WHEN IT’S CHRISTMAS ON THE PRAIRIE

Come winter on the prairie and as far as you can see,
Snow makes a great white blanket across the endless prairie sea,
Pa gets the big sleigh from the barn and greases up the blades,
To make the pulling easier for the horses, on the grades.

Mama takes out the oldest blankets, that help to keep us warm,
Pa checks the sleigh most carefully, to keep us all from harm.
Then snug in mittens, scarves and coats that mama made from wool,
Pa takes us every morning to our little country school.

He stays a while to help our teacher fill the old wood bin,
She thanks him with a curtsy, brings out the gentleman in him.
We students hang our coats and things in the cloak room at the back,
And teacher claps her hands and says, “Since Christmas’s coming that—

Today we’re going to decorate a tree that kind Mr. Mc Clune
Went up north to get for us and will bring it to us soon,
For now we’ll all make popcorn garlands and chains of colored paper,”
And from a box she lifts up a silver star—nothing had escaped her.

No reading, writin’, rithmetic, no studying today!
We’re going to decorate a tree and enjoy a day of play;
On Christmas Eve our families will come to see the tree,
And Santa will come and give us each a bag of candy, free!

“Tain’t no Santa,” One of the big boys in the back row shouted out,
The little girls in front began to shriek and cry and pout;
My younger sis is with the little girls that were in tears.
I knew I had to do something to take away their fears.

“You take that back!” I said with fists clenched, ready for a fight,
When teacher intervened and said “Now, boys, this isn’t right.
On Christmas we all celebrate the birth of Christ the King,
George, you say you’re sorry and we’ll all forget this thing.”

Then teacher told a story, while we cut and pasted rings,
As we made a garland for our tree, she told of many things,
Of the birth of one small baby, in a manger far away,
And how folks far away and near remember Him on this day.

She told about Saint Nicholas who filled the wooden shoes,
Of all the good Dutch boys and girls to remember this Good News,
She said how now, we all remember Jesus in this way,
And all of us remember Him on every Christmas Day.

The big boy, George, he was abashed, and said he didn’t mean it,
But he had no ma or pa and no Santa Claus would visit;
He lived with one old aunt who had no time for foolishness,
No time for trees or holly, for Santa Claus or Christmas.

On Christmas Eve our families came and crowded in the room,
We’d cleaned our desks, the blackboard, and candles chased off gloom,
Then Santa came and brought a sack, and we all lined up to get
A little bag of peppermints, a night we’d not forget.

When all the candy had been passed out, Santa stood upright
And asked, “I wonder if a boy named George is here tonight?”
George came forward and I noticed that his face had turned beet red;
As he said “I’m sorry, Santa, I really didn’t mean to be so bad.”

“Oh, I know that!” Santa laughed, “Why, I know what’s good and true,
There’s just one gift I have to give, and George this one’s for you!”
And from his burlap bag, he reached and handed George a box;
George opened it and all of us heard him gasp with shock;

Inside the box there was a very fine Swiss army knife;
George’s eyes lit up with wonder, “I’ve wanted one all my life,
But,” he said, “I never told this to a single living soul!”
Santa patted him on his shoulder and said “Oh, George, I know!”

We all shed tears and teacher said “Let us sing a song of praise,
That we all remember this night all our living days.”
And so we sang, then hurried home in the cold night with elation,
Before we left, I heard my ma extend a special invitation.

George said he didn’t think his aunt ever would agree,
Ma said “I won’t take no for an answer; dinner is at three.”
And so next day, George and his aunt and our teacher came for dinner,
That all of us told mama was so fine and sure a winner.

In the parlor there were presents for sis and George and me,
Scarves and mittens ma had stitched and it was plain to see
That no one had done this much for George in all his sorry life,
“Scarves and mittens!” George exclaimed, “And a fine Swiss Army knife!”

We all sipped hot tea with cookies ma had baked, just for this day,
And our guests all carried home tins of cookies wrapped so gay,
Before we went to bed that night, I heard my mother whisper,
“You dear old Claus, I do believe, I’d like to kiss your whiskers!”

Years later, when my pa was old frail and could not see,
I ventured then to ask him what had long been bothering me,
“How could you know,” I asked him, “About George and that army knife?”
“Because,” he said, “I wanted one, most of my own life.”

George married my kid sister and they have a bunch of boys;
Their farm is off in Kansas and sis tells me it’s a joy,
For George just loves his rowdy bunch, for them he’d give his life,
And every one of those young boys owns a fine Swiss Army knife.

–Sandra Lee Smith, 2010

(*This was a poem I wrote in a small collection of poems called An American Childhood, for my poetry club in 2010. Then my Canadian girlfriend, Doreen, took all of the American Childhood poetry and put it together with illustrations and one of her own poems, and compiled a booklet titled MAMA IN THE KITCHEN/AN AMERICAN CHILDHOOD, 1900, RECEIPTS AND VERSE WRITTEN BY SANDRA LEE SMITH).

THE APPROACH OF WINTER…AN AMERICAN CHILDHOOD

THE APPROACH OF WINTER

We knew that it was coming; all the leaves had fallen down
And lay in wet and heavy clumps and clusters on the ground;
The cats and kits and dogs and pups had gotten winter coats,
And ice was forming on the pond where in summer we sailed boats;
My ma had taken out our scarves, warm mittens, and galoshes,
And got out heavy blankets that we laid across the horses;
The cellar was jam-packed with fruit and veggies ma had canned
All through the scorching summer months, and we all took a hand
Making jams and jellies, packing eggs in lots of straw;
Apples filled the barrels and it was late in fall
When papa butchered us a pig and hung the hams to cure,
We all helped make the sausages; the smokehouse was a lure;
We all strung miles of pole beans that ma hung up in the rafters,
And thought that we would surely eat like kings forever after,
Along with apple slices that she hung up there to dry,
On some snowy winter morn, they’d be great to fry;
We gathered nuts from all the trees and put them all in sacks
And in the cellar loaded squash where pa had put up racks,
Ma quilted through the winter making covers for our beds,
And using feathers from the geese, made pillows for our heads;
Pa and I had chopped up wood until the shed was overflowing,
Through the cold and bitter months, the woodstove would be glowing,
The pantry shelves were overfull with flour, salt and honey,
All the things that ma had bought selling eggs to get the money;
The cabbages had been shredded and were salted in a crock,
And when we had put up everything, my ma and pa took stock
And pa would look into the skies and say that winter’s here;
But we would have a lot to eat and there was naught to fear.

–SANDRA LEE SMITH

T’WAS A WEEK BEFORE CHRISTMAS

T’WAS A WEEK BEFORE CHRISTMAS

T’was a week before Christmas
And all through the house,
Gift-wrap was littered,
It even covered a spouse,
Who sat forlorn in his old easy chair,
Wondering if there was
An extra cookie to spare—
For cookies were baked
And filled every tin,
But to eat even one
Would be considered a sin—
(Unless it was one that was broken or burned)
Decorations hung every where that you turned.
In the guest room, presents were piled everywhere,
And trees were put up, not a moment to spare—
Twinkling lights and ornaments too,
But it will look pretty, when we’re all through—
I’ve scorched all my fingers giving candy a test
And thought it was time that I had a good rest;
When out on the roof there arose such a clatter,
I dashed to the door to see what was the matter;
Up on a ladder, Grandpa swayed to and fro—
Trying to decide where the fake reindeer should go—
I was sure he would fall and smash all the lights,
I shouted come down and we’ll fix it all right!
The dollhouse is back where it belongs
And hundreds of CDs play holiday songs,
Pork Loin’s in the freezer and wood on the fire,
Eggnog in the frig we hope will inspire
But if not there is brandy, bourbon, and port,
To serve every guest who is a good sport;
We’ll work at it all until we fall with a jerk
And let Santa get credit for all our hard work!

–Sandra Lee Smith

NATIONAL HOMEMADE BREAD DAY IS NOVEMBER 17, 2011

NATIONAL HOMEMADE BREAD DAY IS NOVEMBER 17, 2011

A lot of people have never made a loaf of bread
(discounting something frozen that you just pop
into the oven).

My mother made two large loaves of bread twice a week,
in roasting pans, when we were all young children.
I don’t think we ever tasted store-bought bread
and sometimes I was envious of the children
who brought peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
made from Wonder Bread while we—poor things!
—ate sandwiches made from homemade bread.

I am reminded of the words to a song
…“You don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone…”
– my mother has been gone eleven years
but her mind was gone long before that.
Her loaves of homemade bread –
when an end crust cut off while it was hot,
and slathered with butter, was a special treat
if you happened to be the child in the kitchen
at the time—
are simply a memory
in the minds of her children.

I make homemade bread, too—
and not just with a bread machine.
I love the smell of a homemade loaf of
bread baking in the oven.

–Sandra Lee Smith

THE BUCKET LIST

THE BUCKET LIST

I’ve never been to New Orleans,
Or eaten jambalaya,
I’ve never climbed a mountain top,
Or ever even tried to;
I’ve never traveled on a cruise,
Though the Panama invites me;
I’ve never longed for jungle trips;
I fear the bugs will bite me—
(Not to mention lions, tigers
And big wild things that fright me).
I’ve never eaten rattlesnake
And doubt I ever will,
And riding on a roller coaster
Won’t give me a thrill—
I’d be afraid I’d lose my teeth,
So it’s hardly worth the risk,
And never mind the greater threat
Of rupturing a disk.
I haven’t gone to New York town
And so I haven’t seen
The Lady in the Harbor—
I’m sure you think I’m green.
I’d love to travel to Alaska,
And take the train ride inland—
I hear it goes five hundred miles
In, and then back out again.
I yearn now to go far up north,
To see polar bears in Churchill—
But it’s so very far away,
I doubt now I ever will.
I’d like to visit all the states
On the eastern coast,
And go to see all the light houses
So I could surely boast.
But here I sit this autumn night,
And gaze at stars above me,
And I thank my lucky stars
To be close to folks who love me.

–Sandra Lee Smith
Rewritten 5-29-11

WHEN MAMA MAKES SOME CANDY (A POEM & A RECIPE)

When the days start getting shorter
And the frost is on the ground,
And the dogs are getting furry,
And the woodpile is a mound,
Near the woodstove, cats are lounging,
And the chores have all been done,
We all sit around the table,
While we read our books for fun.
Then one night after the dishes
Have been washed and put away,
Mama puts aside her darning,
And gets up and then she says
“What a night for making taffy!”
And you see our ears perk up,
I shout “I’ll fetch the sugar!”
Sis says “I’ll get the cup”
(The one we use to measure things),
And a wooden spoon to stir it up.
Mama takes out cider vinegar,
I pour molasses in the cup;
Into a big old heavy pot
Go all the needful things,
And Mama stirs it ‘till it’s boiling,
And then –well, here’s the thing,
You cook it without stirring
For what seems the longest wait
Mama tests a bit in water,
Till we see it hold its shape,
Then we pour it on the platter,
And we have to let it cool,
We butter up our fingers
‘cause we’re nobody’s fool
Then Sis & I pull taffy,
Till it stretches and it’s grand;
Mama cuts it into pieces
With her scissors and she hands
Over all the little pieces
To Pa for him to wrap
In wax paper and he twists them and
Gives each a little snap.
We’ll eat a few small pieces
Just to see if they are sweet.
Mama’s homemade taffy
Is the best thing you can eat.

— Sandra Lee Smith

TO MAKE MAMA’S MOLASSES TAFFY
You will need:

2 cups unsulfured molasses
1 cup sugar
2 TBSP butter
2 TBSP apple cider vinegar

Butter a platter or baking sheet. In a large pan, combine all the ingredients. Stirring constantly, bring to a boil and cook, without stirring, until the mixture reaches 250 degrees F. (the hard ball stage) on a candy thermometer or until a small amount of mixture dropped into very cold water forms a ball that is hard enough to hold its shape yet is pliable.

Pour onto the platter. Have squares of wax paper on hand. Let the cooked taffy cool enough its barely cool enough to work with (if it gets too cool, you can warm it in a 350 degree oven for 3-4 minutes). Coat your hands with butter. Form candy into one or more balls. Now start pulling. Working fast, pull a lump of candy between the fingertips of one hand and the other until its about 15 inches long. Now double it up and pull again. Continue pulling as in step 1 until candy is porous and hard to pull. Stretch candy into a rope about ¾” in diameter. Cut with greased scissors into 1” pieces. To prevent sticking, wrap each piece individually in a piece of wax paper; twist the ends to seal. Keep wrapped candy in a tightly closed tin.
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