Forgotten Pot Roast

As the year comes to an end, and what a year it has been, I have been looking at some old recipes.  (Searching for comfort in uncomfortable times?) These recipes are from my mother’s recipe box.  I have no idea where they came from originally; I know that the script is hers.  For now, I will imagine that they came from the careful mixing of her tastes, her experience, and her history, handed down from previous generations.  Of course they may have been borrowed from the back of a box, but I will stick with the careful mixing/ handed down metaphor. 

Here is the first one: Forgotten Pot Roast.  If you try it, let me know what you think.

Forgotten Pot Roast

Which Side?

Beside the freeway bus stop
the boys play soccer
with a piece of trash
(today it’s a tossed-aside
one liter water bottle).

The bigger one kicks off his
shoes, towards his mother
who is selling fruit to the commuters,
because the sneakers’ sole
became unattached
to the hole-y canvas upper
making it hard to beat his brother
at trash soccer.

“Put on your shoes,” sighs mom
as she takes a few cents for a
watermelon slice, all the time knowing
he won’t.

The commuters,
with purses, backpacks and briefcases
(and slices of fruit),
climb the stairs of the pedestrian bridge
that spans the freeway.

Which side will they come down on?

After Her Death

Following my mother’s death
We fought about the things.
We argued over furniture and
Heirloom diamond rings.

The Waterford from Ireland,
And oil-on-canvas art,
Madam Alexander Dolls,
Keepsakes of the heart.

Two lifetimes worth of Kodak prints,
The sweaters knit by hand,
Great grandma’s China gravy boat,
Old stories of the land.

“My shelves are full!”
“My car’s too small!”
“Antique things’ll break!”
“I’ve got no room
On floor or wall
So nothing will I take!”

That’s the way we argued,
Voices almost at a wail.
So then and there we opted
For a discount two-day sale.