When mama’s in the kitchen
Making biscuits, cake, or bread,
Or even simple cookies,
I mind each word she says;
We both put on our aprons
That mama sewed herself,
She sends me to the pantry
To fetch things down from the shelf.
From the well I tote in water,
And eggs from the chicken coop,
I fetch kindling from the woodpile;
And Mama says we’ll make some soup.
She kills a hen no longer laying,
With a quick twist of its neck,
And has me plucking out the feathers,
I am good at this, by heck.
From the garden mama fetches
Parsley, carrots, beans;
From the cellar Pa brings up taters,
The finest ones he’s seen.
When the chicken’s cooking
In a big pot on the stove,
Mama sets to mixing things
To make bread, a couple loaves.
She bakes bread in a roaster;
It rises light and brown,
And with a bit of butter,
A crust is mighty fine.
By dinnertime we’re eating
Hot chicken soup and bread,
And with a glass of ice cold milk,
You know that you’ve been fed.
–Sandra Lee Smith