Shoo Fly

Day 13 Prompt:  Write two poems in one.  Write a recipe poem.  Write a letter poem.

Dear Grandma,

I never could get it just right,
that flaky crust, and the perfect
balance of corn syrup and molasses.
Wet bottom, surely, but not so soggy
it mucks up the bottom of the pie dish.

The thing is, the only thing Dutch
about my mother-in-law
is the family she married in to,
the blood that flows downriver,
in her sons and grandsons.
But her fingers know the secrets.
She can bake a shoo-fly pie to rival those
that Sadie Stoltzfus sells
along the Lincoln Highway.

And me, I’m so inbred
I’m my own eighth cousin
at least once, and I couldn’t
bake a shoo-fly pie to save my soul.

I’ll just have to put
the whole wheat flour out of reach,
buy myself a bottle of corn syrup,
and get out the rolling pin again.

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