The Rolling Pin


Opening the drawer in the kitchen
Brought back a world of memories
The spoons to measure, several sets
The cups from quarter to half pint
The spare set of measuring cups
Missing the one-third measure.
Tools, sacred tools, shaped for the
Discerning housewife, by cooks who
Wrote books threatening failure if
The correct measurements
Were not followed.
The doughnut cutter, two of those
One missing the cutter of the
Small center hole.
Wooden spoons one, two, three and
Spatulas to fold the flour into the egg
And then transfer the batter to the pan.

Where is it? Oh, here's the handle.
Will it still make the same sound
Click, click, click as it rolls the dough
Making a round to fit the bottom of the pie plate.
My hand slides along the smooth wooden roller.
My eyes close and I slowly turn the shaft.
Yes! Click, click, click.

My eyes open and scan the surface of the tool.
Probably maple worn shiny from years of use.
The handle painted a lackluster green but
Adding to the appearance, a touch of color.
Reminding me of the care Mum gave to the wood.
Never letting it sit in water to destroy this
Valuable item, knowing the cost
To have it replaced.

Placing it on the counter and rolling it forward
The sound takes me back to grade school.
Returning home after a day of reading and
Arithmetic. As I approach the back door
I can smell the sweetness of the apples
And hear the click, click, click as
Mum rolls out the dough for the pie.
Apple pie for dinner and pie dough
With cinnamon and sugar for
A hungry school girl. Delightful!

Tears form as I think of those hands
That for so many years rolled that
Rolling pin over the dough to shape
A treat for her family.
In her final days her desire
Was to make a pumpkin pie,
But could not remember how.
It's okay, Mum, I will make
One for you.
Do you mind if I use
Your rolling pin. The old one
That still goes
Click, click, click.

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