Adelaide B. Shaw

Grandma's Noodles

She has flour up to her elbows. With sturdy hands she kneads the dough, pressing against the soft mass and pushing down and forward. Gives it a quarter turn and repeats the process until the dough is no longer sticky, but smooth. She lets it rest.

the mantle clock
pinging the quarter hour–
suddenly awake

She punches down the dough, rolls it out to a quarter inch thickness. With a sharp knife, cuts thin strips, places them on a floured sheet spread across the bed. By dinner time, the chicken has been stewed and the broth is at the boil, ready for the dry noodles. Grandpa and I watch and wait with our empty bowls.

steam covered window
I draw a heart
with no name