November 30: Give Mother a Kiss, New Poem, "Pecan Pie," New Cartoon

"Well.  Go to sleep.  Give Mother a kiss.  Did you say your prayers?"

Holden's mother is a sad character.  A chain-smoker.  Migraines.  Depression.  Lost one son to leukemia.  Her other son (Holden) flunking out of every school on the East Coast.  I have a lot of sympathy for her.

I don't write about my mother much.  Writing poetry about your mother is a good way to tempt sentimentality.  I don't want to compose a Hallmark card.  However, I've been toying with an idea about a Thanksgiving poem for a couple of weeks, and, when I started writing it, my mother somehow became its focus.

I've learned not to fight poetic impulse.  If a poem leads you somewhere, you have to follow it.

Saint Marty followed his poem today.

Pecan Pie

Mix eggs, sugar and Karo,
melted butter, vanilla from Mexico
in a bowl until it all runs
yellow as corn silk.  Add pecans,
one-and-a-quarter cups.  Fold
them into the gold syrup,
the way a farmer folds
manure into a field of hay
or my son folds a Tootsie Roll
under his tongue, plants it there,
lets it feed the furrows
of his young body.  Pour this filling
into a shell, edges fluted
by my wife's hands, crimped
between thumb and forefinger
to peaks and troughs of dough.
Bake at 350 degrees.
Forty-five minutes to an hour.
You'll know when it's done.
The house will smell
brown and warm and sweet.
Dip a butter knife blade
into the center of the pie.
If it comes out hot and clean,
take the pie out of the oven.  Put it
on the front porch to cool.
You can leave it there overnight.
It'll be waiting in the morning.
Cover it with a hand towel.  Carry
it to your parents' house,
where your mother asks you
"Is it cold outside?"
over and over as you cut
the pie.  "Yes," you tell her.
And "yes" when she asks again.
It is cold this Thanksgiving.
And, yes, pecan pie is her favorite.
Give her a large slice,
with extra Cool Whip
and a hot cup of coffee.

Confessions of Saint Marty