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.

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

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