The Dessert

A lattice of buttery crust,

fluted by my grandmother’s flour-dusted thumbs,

cooling on the gingham oilcloth

while the porch swing groaned its slow, familiar lullaby.

Inside, the pot still whispered of scalded milk

and the heavy, golden warmth of separated yolks.

She would slice the bananas—

not too thin, just thick enough to hold their shape

against the tide of custard—

their pale moons sinking into a sea of vanilla bean.

I remember standing tiptoe on the braided rug,

waiting for the scrape of the wooden spoon,

the sweet reward left at the bottom of the bowl.

And then, the meringue.

A tempest whipped to stiff peaks in a copper bowl,

kissed by the oven's breath until the crests turned amber,

like autumn leaves caught in the sun.

We never waited for it to set.

A wedge of it on mismatched china,

weeping slightly at the edges,

sweet as a July afternoon that refused to end.

Now, decades later, I catch the scent—

just a flash of custard and potash in some strange bakery window—

and I am instantly small again,

sitting in the cool shade of the screened-in porch,

waiting for the world to taste like home.