He scooped in the slick knob of lard

then poured the sweet pale Bisquick out

and a scalded sizzling spitting ensued,

edges crisping to a grainy rind, bubbles

breaking out all over the top. And in less

than a minute the oil-soaked cake was

ready for the plate.

Our father’s cakes were as thin

as the flesh of a tire’s inner tube,

they tasted of fire and oil and burned wheat,

we drowned them in cooling syrup and wiped

our lips and carried our plates to the stove

where he stood humming over the red-hot,

smoking cast-iron pan.