I had lunch at my favorite Italian place this afternoon with a friend and I can't believe how long it's been since I've been there. It reminded me, as it always does, of my grandmother. Here is the poem the place and thinking of her inspired — the last time I was there.

Lunch At That Italian Place
Annette Marie Hyder

Thick white plates and schmaltzy music
loaves so fresh that steam rises off them
as they purr heatedly just waiting
to lick that butter up

the chocolate on the desserts here
is aggressively dark and delicious
holds your taste buds captive
makes them beg for more

and the wine is crisp and authoritative
insists on one more glass
as I contemplate crushed red pepper
and think of my grandmother
who always had to have her spaghetti
sprinkled with fire petals

kept a glass shaker with silver top
of that flecked dynamite
on her dining table
right beside her black pepper and salt.

How I resented her.

Maybe because she was
much like her seasoning of choice
hard to take
so bossy and strict.
I hated the strong hand she had
in raising us
until today.

I hadn't realized
how generous she was
to give so much of herself
over
to helping her daughter/my mother.
The waiter comes
asks, is there anything else we need?

No, nothing else is needed.
I've already gotten perspective
with my pasta.
Sometimes our biggest sacrifices
are resented the most by others
I say to myself as crushed red pepper
inflames my throat and tears my eyes.


My grandmother made a Sunday spaghetti dinner almost every Sunday. Here is another poem inspired by her (in)famous Sunday tradition:

Sunday Lessons
Annette Marie Hyder
(Previously published in An Appalachian Rag)

Sundays were not for playing
as Saturdays were.
Sundays dragged you out of bed
with the grim promise
of spiritually upbuilding association
which really meant sitting,
your legs sticking out over the edge
of the wooden bench,
contemplating the dips and valleys
of freshly laundered slip and dress,
fending off the demons,
Headnod and Gapemouth,
who attempted to possess you
through the enticement
of the speaker's
soporific voice.

You had to wrestle,
like Jacob with his angel,
with your own imagination
which could easily betray you
to a head thumping or a thigh pinch
from your reverent grandmother
who did not intend to tolerate
the disrespect of legs pumping
(however, they were horses running)
or fingers fraying the fringes of her shawl
(however, they were princesses dancing
in dresses dear embellished).

Following these lessons was the mortification
of  long suffered curls
wooed by old lady fingers
touching them for luck
and breathed over adoringly.
You thought you couldn't
hate them more
(the curls that is)
and that reminds you
that you have freckles
and how they clash with everything
(however, you've heard that they can be bleached,
have resolved to influence your mother
into buying buttermilk and salt
but will not tell her why).

Could anything equal the unfairness
of not being allowed to spend the rest of the day
as you saw fit?
It was squandered on a mandatory family dinner,
the fame of which far exceeded its taste,
and must be downed
in the appetite dampening presence
of the great matriarch,
she of the woefully strong arm,
the spaghetti cooking grandmother.

T.V. following dinner was not a treat
but rather a further trial consisting of 60 Minutes
that could be tolerated
only by fear of the aforesaid strong arm
combined with the patterns on the carpet
and dust motes on the air
which in and of themselves
were golden messengers
of relief
spinning stories as they spun
in slant of setting sun.

Bedtime following that
resurrected your autonomy
and you viewed Monday with a martyr's patience
and the hard won knowledge that even Sundays
have to end.