The meal begins with
an anticipation for
scrumptious food.
“Come set the table!” Mom commands,
followed by an echoed groan.
A groan of laziness,
overpowered
by a hearty rumble of the stomach.
Finally the table is ready.
We all take our spots.
The sizzle of cooking stops
as she transports the delicious dishes
to the Easter table.
Madness erupts:
The clank of metal on glass,
the clink of wood on metal,
and the zing of glass on glass.
They’re all familiar sounds.
A sip here, and a slurp there,
the sound of food is everywhere.
Her iced tea is the bomb.
I pour it in my tall glass, slosh,
and gulp it down with a
glug, glug, glug.
I scope out the food on my plate:
Polish sausage,
as vibrant as the scarlet color of my grandma’s nail polish,
rests comfortably upon a bed of cream colored translucent sauerkraut.
Circular scalloped potatoes
are stacked on top of each other,
as vibrant as the yellow of a flame.
Homemade bread,
with a perfect golden brown crust,
sweeter than anything I’ve had before,
lies next to a slice of rye, speckled with small spots of seeds
the color of the ominous clouds in a thunderstorm.
Grandma’s "famous" Easter soup (Secret recipe),
in the biggest pot I’ve seen since Christmas,
and add some spicy savory horseradish
to top it all off.
Take some blessed food before we start.
We all grab a piece and pass it along,
with a familiar crackle of the wicker basket,
circulating the table.
“Thank You for this food,” we pray.
My sister cracks a joke,
closely followed by an evil glare from Grandma.
Food falls on the floor,
plop, splat!
We all erupt in a giggle.
I dig into what I’ve been waiting for all along.
Eating more than my stomach can handle.
All I can hear is the crunch, squish, and pop of food being chewed.
Little conversation,
mumble,
grumble
here and there.
Don’t rush;
be sure to savor it all.
Plates are quickly cleared.
Stomachs are full to the brim.