Sunbeam

Another poem written for and debuted at Gigi's Cafe for MNYFP February — Food Love Affairs.

Part 1

Forget cartoons—

on Saturday mornings, I climbed the kitchen counter

to lift down the low-slung Sunbeam Waffle Baker & Grill,

heavy with age.

The tattered copy of The Joy of Cooking fell open to page 240.

I sifted a mountain of flour,

beat egg whites to stiff peaks, and

folded till barely blended—

batter buzzing from baking powder meeting milk,

I from anticipation.

Question: When is a waffle done?

Answer: Never quickly enough.

I ignored the control knob light

and waited for the tug in my gut.

Part 2

I jettisoned Joy, experimented with leavening agents and egg alternates;

the Sunbeam steamed on.

I snagged something unknown,

fed a sourdough starter and a young husband;

the Sunbeam steamed on.

Then, the clime cooled,

unseen cultures crumbled.

Question: When is a waffle done?

Answer: When no steam issues from the cracks of the iron.

I had ignored my gut

and the light had burnt out.

Part 3

When you are drinking on a Saturday night,

nothing tastes better than reappropriated cake mix.

The Sunbeam accepts funfetti batter

like it has accepted every batter,

bubbling with beat albumen

or bare of bicarbonate—

with steady heat.

My mind wanders

and the Sunbeam steals a kiss,

searing its red-hot love across my forearm.

Question: When is a waffle done?
Answer: When you feel it.

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