A Born Cook

A Born Cook

She had a way with salads,

A way of cooking rice,

An extra touch to cooking meat,

That made it extra nice.

A loving pat to buns and bread,

That seemed to make them rise,

As white and soft as thistledown,

And more than twice their size.

She had a way of sealin' in,

The covers of a pie,

That kept the juices all inside,

The crusts all crisp and dry.

She'd crimp the edges neat as wax,

Then cook it long and slow,

Until it had that special taste,

That all old timers know.

I've seen her frying doughnuts,

In an old black iron pot,

The golden circles bubbling up,

Rich and sizzling hot.

The kitchen filled with warmth and cheer,

Fragrant with mace and clove,

With cheeriness just belching out

From that old fashioned stove.

And when I see new fangled ways,

I wonder how it feels,

To sit down at the end of day,

To skimpy modern meals.

I'll take my grub old fashioned thanks,

For taste instead of style,

Thus fortified I'll face the world

And neighbors with a smile.

- Edna Jaques
- Photo from Saskatchewan!