It’s a thing of magic how
No matter the day
No matter how dreary and grim
Or how plans have become derailed
That
-don’t laugh now-
Thinking about meat pies
Of forty years ago
Straight out of the deep fryer
In my aunt’s kitchen of cracked tiles and sawdust floors
On tiptoes
Straining and grunting to peer over the counter
Delicious pillows of pork and fat and spice
Creole culinary bliss

They rescue me every time

Ezy Reading is out every month.