Bapa’s Infamous Sweet Rolls

17 Jan

Bapa’s Infamous Sweet Rolls
by L. Stewart Marsden

In her clunky, chunky-blunt shoes,
Ankles swelled into obscurity,
Bapa shuffled across the tile-checkered kitchen floor
to scoop some more flour and to sprinkle yeast and sugar,
butter and milk,
cinnamon and eggs,
and other secret ingredients
into the porcelain bowl,
then trolled the mix with her wired whisk.

Mom said Bapa always left one key part out of the recipe.

“She dislikes me for marrying your dad,” she’d say of Dad’s mom,
when Mom’s rolls did not measure up to Dad’s and our critiques.

Unique they were — Bapa’s rolls.
Sweet and sticky,
Nutty and brown,
Swirled around with all of those parts
which, when baked, imparted incredible smells
that swelled throughout the otherwise dusky dank rooms
where Bapa dwelled.

“They are after me,” she told me once,
confiding that spies had come to peek on her,
And seek from her those missing parts of her infamous
glorious sweet rolls.

I never told anyone else. She swore me to unbendable secrecy.

And now she’s gone and I’ve grown old
I half-expect the spies to come and pester me
for those secret parts — still doggedly kept —
of Bapa’s infamous sweet rolls.

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2 Responses to “Bapa’s Infamous Sweet Rolls”

  1. momshieb January 17, 2014 at 7:37 pm #

    Beautiful.

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