Mamaw’s Chicken and Dumplins
Mamaw had this old, oak table
Full of worn spots from warm plates and bowls
A coffee ring at the end of the table where papaw used to sit
That table always smelt clean
Like fresh peonies and laundry
Anytime she’d make her chicken and dumplins
After being stripped of it’s old linen tablecloth
Mamaw would wash that table with a warm, soapy cloth
Before dusting it with King Arthur flour
Little clouds bursting from the surface
As the sprinkling hit against the old wood
I, hidden under the table watching
As snowy flour dissipated into the kitchen air
She could hear my giggles
I could smell the chicken cooking on the stove
The holy trinity of flavors
The rawness of dough stinging my nose
She picked me up to sit upon that table
We patted flour between our hands
More clouds
More giggles
She rolled out her dough
And began to cut long strips
Like the same long lines from her tablecloth
Cutting smaller pieces
Little chunks of sticky dough upon her table
She would roll those pieces
In the palms of her weathered and wrinkled hands
Those same hands cupping mine
My smile extending up to my eyes
As I made my first dumplin’
She dotted my nose with a floury finger
And smiled back at me
“Good job, my sweet baby”
Tiptoes on the step stool
I’d watch her gently slide
Each dumplin into the pot
“Not too close, baby, you don’t want to get burned”
After it all came together
We would wait
The house filled with the warmth
And smells of our supper
Placing me back on the table
I would take a warm, soapy cloth
And wash away our mounds of floury snow
The remenants of our day
She would reach me one side of the linen cloth
And we would gently place it back
Preparing the table for supper
Off white bowls with a navy stripe
Mismatched metal spoons
I always got the smallest
Later in the evening
The whole family communing together
Me sitting right beside Mamaw
My own bowl filled full
This memory
One of my fondest
I make them to this day
Flour on my own table
Mamaw now mingled in the puffs of flour
Like a happy ghost
Still giding me
As I make her chicken and dumplins
2 thoughts on "Mamaw’s Chicken and Dumplins"
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Loved this memory! Floury snow, puffs of flour
You really set this scene and draw the reader in