The smell of Gram’s biscuits hits me at the door; I can almost taste the cold hard butter that will ooze into them.
There is chicken roasting, and the savory odor of sage engulfs me when the oven door is opened, the blast of heat pushing the aroma out and into the room.
The potatoes are aboil, blue flames dancing along the bottom of the old metal pot, steam erupting from the rattling lid. The green beans await their turn on a rear burner.
Yesterday’s pies sit on the counter, only the apple one missing a slice; Grandad isn’t made to wait like the rest of us. He probably had it with a slice of sharp cheddar or a scoop of vanilla ice cream last evening while watching the news.
I’ve been hungry since waking, foregoing breakfast for a sermon, a sip of wine, and a dry cracker on my tongue; now my stomach rumbles in anticipation.
The big table gets set, each place with a plate, a mismatched glass, and a full array of silverware–even the soup spoons were set carefully over the head of the setting, even though there was no soup. A pink glass pitcher of ice water dripped sweat to mark the fresh table cover with cool wet rings.
Grace is brief; the conversation short.
Though the meal is eaten quickly, the food is always good.
Tara Moeller 