(an Italian sonnet)
I watch you standing near the steaming pot,
perspiration’s glow dripping down your face.
You splay the corn husks with an expert grace,
spread masa just the way your mother taught.
Black olives, not green, always hit the spot.
There is history you will not erase,
traditions from another time and place,
tamales made with love just can’t be bought.
Memories of kids standing on a chair
‘helping’ mom and grandma make the ‘mollies’.
Rambunctious boys were such a giggly pair
make for joy filled laughs and endless follies.
Dozens cooked to eat, dozens more to share.
Making tamales brings love filled jollies.