Desert
Jan 12 2011


Dessert was store-bought.
Apple pie
some kind of loaf.
Banana, possibly.
Supermarket recipes
that were sweet enough to make your teeth buzz.
Sugar must have been cheap, back then.
And there was shelf-life to think of.

In TV commercials
in the hot studio lights
apple pie a la mode
was made with a scoop of mashed potatoes.
Which looks surprisingly like ice cream.
The industrial pie, I’m sure
could have handled the heat.

3 boys, and never any leftovers.
The handy tin-foil tray, just crumbs
glinting hungrily.
I still remember my first spelling mnemonic —
“dessert” with the double “s”;
for seconds, of course.

My mother had rare spurts of ambition
in the culinary arts.
I remember something called ambrosia,
with marshmallows, and mandarins
maraschino cherries
and pudding mix.
Needless to say
she felt her efforts went unappreciated.
Not to mention her own mother,
an intimidating presence
who baked wonderfully
without recipes,
in the secretive kingdom
of her cramped apartment kitchen.

The store-bought apple pie
had a glutinous interior, a heavy crust.
But add ice cream
and it was ambrosia,
with never enough
for seconds.
So much for learning how to spell.