Gravy

Photo courtesy of Nita K. Ritzke.

By Nita K. Ritzke

Breakfast at dawn

had been four fried eggs, ham,

cooked wheat berries with cream and sugar

and coffee boiled hair-on-your-chest strong.

The cream coated his throat.

The coffee washed it down.

She had it ready for him on the table

as she packed his lunch in the oleo tin

and thought about supper later.

She would butcher the chicken

before the sun got too hot. She would fry

it with enough fat to make gravy

then throw in potatoes, onions, greens

lots of salt and pepper

slap on the lid and let the whole thing stew

long and slow

as she got onto the darning.

-

When it was time

when his back, his arms, his thighs, his stomach

burned red as the tractor

he went back to the car and

took out the tin she had handed him that morning:

half-inch slab of cheese on

inch-thick slices from the loaf she had baked

the night before

stuck together with lard.

Coffee.

Two oatmeal molasses cookies.

His favorite.

He was glad

he had remembered

to kiss her.

Nita K. Ritzke writes and teaches in Bismarck, North Dakota. She earned a B.S. from Minot State University, an M.A. from the University of North Dakota, and a Ph.D. from the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. When not walking her dog Mojo, she strives t bake as well as her mother and grandmothers.