My grandmother’s scrambled eggs
were different than my mother’s
a darker yellow
a more dehydrated yellow
an earthier taste from the pan
handed down by her mother
with the eggs containing
flecks of whatever had been
in the pan, previously, usually
bacon, or hashed browns,
and far too much pepper.
This is another in a series of poems about growing up in the South, suggested by my friend Nancy Rosback. I'm still trying to figure out how I can remember the taste of those eggs more than 50 years later.
This poem will also be submitted for Open Link Night at dVerse Poets. The links will be live at 2 p.n. Central time today.
