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Broken Pastry

My grandmother’s pie crusts were perfect.
Fragile containers holding the sweet fruits
of her small hands’ hard work.

My own crusts were hard and tough
as I experimented and strayed
from tradition. Until someone taught me
a method I could master.

Cold fat.
Hot water.
Emulsify.

Science and uncertainty.
Instinct of spice and smell
mixed with precision
of volume and temperature.

Preheat.
Wait.
The proof is in the breaking.

 

(Poem #1 in the National Poetry Month Challenge. I was challenged by Don Rearden. Last year I got to about day 12. We’ll see what happens this time!)
Broken Pastry